A Darker Shade Than Black
by Meiran Chang
Summary: *UPDATED* Dark, angsty Alternate Universe. Duo's at the top of the underworld hierachy as the *best*, ah, streetwalker around, with an assassin's job at the side...
1. Like a Land of Dreams

  


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>> > * * *

A Darker Shade Than Black

Part I

> > > * * *

> * * *

>   
Duo snapped on a pair of sheer, black silk stockings and promptly sneezed at the dust he was raising in the ancient room. He needed a new office, he thought ruefully as he surveyed the unabashed mess, preferably one with a built-in janitor. But he had way too many high-quality products in here, hidden under the layers of dust and paper. They'd take forever to dig out.
> 
> He arched one long, slim leg to make sure the stockings weren't inclined to run or anything, and grinned when they didn't. Of course they wouldn't run. These were the best money could buy.
> 
> He was the Demon, Duo Maxwell – best in the business. On in about three minutes.
> 
> "Could you possibly be any slower?" growled the gruff voice of his boss from somewhere offstage.
> 
> "Shut up," Duo called back amiably, casting eyes around for his dress. The custodial staff at this place was positively non-existent. He smirked; small wonder.
> 
> He spotted a bit of red and black lace sticking out from under a hefty metal box and yanked at it, breathing a sigh of relief when he saw that the dress was still mostly intact. There _was_ that rip in the neckline, but it didn't matter much. His customers loved pawing him anyway, they'd doubtless be perfectly pleased at this turn of events.
> 
> "Two minutes, Maxwell!" his boss yelped.
> 
> "Up yours!" Duo shouted cheerfully. "I'm still getting ready! Tell them to wait!" Quickly he stripped off his grey tanktop and austere black leggings in exchange for the dress. It was impossible for him to walk to his job wearing the priest's frock he favored -- he'd be arrested by a swarm of Fed officers. Then again, he could definitely bribe them, he thought wryly. He had lost body-consciousness a long time ago.
> 
> With a sharp sigh he set his train of thought back on track. Where the hell were his heels, his damn Godforsaken heels? There was another reason that only the desperate joined his ranks. The heels on his shoes were about twelve inches high. He knelt down to check beneath a table. That was where he'd last thrown them. He thought.
> 
> Or maybe they were beneath that _other_ table.
> 
> Nope, it was this one, Duo affirmed, seeing the forlorn pair of shoes peeking out from behind a messy stack of paper.
> 
> "They're _wait_ing for you, Demon!" came his boss's stressed, guttural voice. "You wann 'em to mob th' place er sumthin'?!"
> 
> "Tell them they can damn well wait a little fucking longer, you idiot!" Duo yelled as his nonexistent patience with henpecking snapped and he wrenched his foot into those stupid heels. He was one of the few that could get away with calling his boss an idiot, but only because he was so _damned_ good at his job. Anyone else got a slap in the face, but Duo's face was one of his best selling points. No bruises would mar _his_ impish visage.
> 
> He hopped on one foot over to another cluttered table while jamming his other foot into the corresponding shoe, scanning the table for his make-up. He'd been against make-up at first, and still wasn't fully comfortable with it, but he wielded those brushes and pencils with as much skill as any woman.
> 
> He peered into the mirror in front of him and applied sweat-resistant foundation with painstaking care. Outside, he could hear the dull chants of "De-mon! De-mon! De-mon!" beginning to rock the floor. It was quite flattering, really, but the more they worked themselves up, the better the hush when he emerged.
> 
> He swept the blush over the contour of his cheekbones; just a little bit of it. He didn't need to look as if he had twin apples glued onto his cheeks. A while ago, Duo had learned the hard way just how exhausting this job really was, and he usually finished the night flushed, so if he went overboard on the blush, he'd look like a tomato when his shift was over. Then lipstick – soft red, just a few shades brighter than his natural lip color. He didn't exactly want to look _painted_, like some cheap charlatan, he thought with some indignance. He certainly wasn't cheap.
> 
> He noted that he was almost out of violet eyeshadow, then shrugged and swiftly and skillfully brushed the powder onto his eyelids. He used the black eyeliner pencil to dramatically emphasize his violet irises - not exactly the racoon look, and certainly not as if he had twin shiners, but just enough to draw attention. With what remained of the mascara he dealt with his lashes. He didn't need all that much; his eyelashes were long, thick, and dark, the perfect complement to his big eyes.
> 
> "DEMON!" the boss roared, from the harried tone of his voice finally losing all patience. "I CAN'T KEEP 'EM DOWN FOR MUCH LONGER WHILE YOU FECKIN' CHANGE! HURRY UP!"
> 
> This time Duo didn't even bother to respond, though he did roll his eyes, ever the spoiled and pampered star. The crowd would calm down when they saw him. They always did.
> 
> He carefully smoothed his bangs out of his eyes and fluttered his long lashes at his reflection, noting with a pleased smile the vitality of his brown hair. He flipped his long braid over his shoulder; it shone glossily in the light. With the amount of care he put into it, it had better. He spent hours washing it, brushing it, drying it, the works. The waist-length fall of chestnut locks was another of his best selling points and had to be the most versatile sex toy ever created, or at least it had a lot of folks under that impression, because his customers constantly moaned for him to release that tempting mass. He never did.
> 
> _Enough. I know my hair's beautiful. I won't fit my cap before long. _Duo grinned sheepishly at himself in the mirror, wide and cheerful indigo eyes sparkling in a way the expertly applied make-up gladly emphasized. Satisfied at last that he was ready for the night, he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at the beautiful young woman in the mirror, winked at himself and then turned to run out of the room, only to stumble and only barely catch himself on the doorframe. Apparently he'd have a job navigating on those deadly heels.
> 
> But by the time he reached the curtain dividing the catwalk from the backstage area, he was under control of himself. He had, after all, been forced into a lot of truly godawful outfits. About the first thing one learned in his position was to adapt. The boss, a crude, gray-haired old man who was far more dangerous and fit than he looked, sighed in relief.
> 
> The star had arrived.
> 
> Duo parted the curtains with one smooth sweep of his arms, and silence fell over the crowed like a soft blanket, only a few shocked whispers leaking out here and there. He was a remarkable sight: a confusing, yet inherently appealing blend of feminine beauty and masculine confidence. The spotlights shone on his glossy chestnut locks and created alluring shadows on his elfin face. For a moment he let no expression cross his face, standing still that the crowd might devour him as they please. They swept approving eyes over his devilishly angelic face, down the chest which was so frustratingly covered by that red and black lace, down the long, slim legs which the black stockings so accentuated.
> 
> The first-timers, the blasphemers, the ones who had been drawn to this place by the rumor of an impossibly sexy cross-dresser, were stunned. Men and women alike were affected as the full radiance of his beauty hit them. He wasn't like all of the other desperate, unwilling prostitutes, somehow. He brought class to the place, the way ancient paintings adorned palaces. The seedy pub was transformed into a temple, and the Demon was its altar boy.
> 
> Then Duo lowered his head, looked up at the crowd through half-lidded eyes, and let his trademarked mischevious smile creep across his face. His look was full of invitation, full of promise - his prelude to any show.
> 
> The crowd roared back to life as most recognized that look for what it was: the beginning of the night.
> 
> With the crowd fully under his spell, the music began to rustle through the club, and Duo began to dance.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> Tired beyond belief, Duo jammed the key into his apartment's lock, wrenched the door open, and stumbled towards the first soft object he could find, his nice, attractive, wheezy old couch. Collapsing on it, he ripped off his sneakers, brought one leg up and gingerly rubbed the vaguely aching foot. He was _never_ wearing those heels again, no matter how much money his boss offered him. Holy shit. The minute he had released his feet from the pincer-like grip of the heels, he had felt so much pain radiating through them that he'd almost collapsed right there in the office.
> 
> At least he'd been able to change in his office, though the outfit he had put together was less than satisfactory. He had been unable to find his gray tanktop, so had made do with a huge white tent of a shirt borrowed from Carecia, but he _had _found his black leggings, and scuffed tennis sneakers along with that. It wouldn't go in the fashion hall of fame, but it would do.
> 
> He had learned the hard way - for a moment he thought resentfully if he had ever learned anything the _easy_ way - that if he came home wearing what he wore on his job, the likelihood of attempted rape or mugging increased tenfold. It was extremely annoying to be accosted by a puffed-up street tough who was looking to test the Demon's rep. Those incidents were becoming few and far between, of course, as Duo had no mercy when he just wanted to go home and collapse after an exhausting night's work. The Demon did not appreciate being waylaid.
> 
> _All they have to do is come to my office and pay money, and they can have me for however many hours they pay for_. _Otherwise they've got no business near me._
> 
> If would-be street toughs thought he would not hesitate to have favors called in on his behalf, they were damn wrong. His body was his livelihood and he would not see it broken, bruised, or injured in any way. He knew important people in both the colony's underworld and its highest stratifications, and if someone persisted, he'd ask his friends Knife and Dagger, co-leaders of the street gang Regretless, to take care of them for him. If the situation called for immediate action, well, Duo had been one of the better street-fighters when he was younger. If some moron tried to get their hand up his shirt, they'd be down in a flash, and dead if he was in a lousy mood. He was freaking Shinigami and _no_ one messed with him.
> 
> He sighed and tilted his head back, relaxing his muscles to try to ward off tension-knots. Fact was, he was too good at his job, and his existence was becoming geared around that. He felt engulfed.
> 
> He hadn't wanted to be this, but it was either prostitution or death by impoverishment. He had wanted better for himself, had wanted to go to school and learn things and go to dances and have a prom, all that normal shit. He had only wanted to be a normal sixteen year old...
> 
> _Damn the Federation._ The Federation's iron control over the colonies had lost him everything. First his parents, back in the first war, back when he was so young that he couldn't even remember them now. Then Solo, lost to the plague. He had heard since that the Federation itself engineered the plague and then the cure, that L2 might welcome it as its savior.
> 
> His lips tightened. And then the Federation, as it tried to control the rebellions springing up everywhere, had killed Father Maxwell and Sister Helen. Everyone who might have cared for him had died, his Curse touching them all, leaving him at age eight with no route to survival but this. Duo closed his eyes; those memories hurt. He had only been eight. Frightened, traumatized, but with a promise of beauty and the need to survive.
> 
> Eight years had passed; he was sixteen now and his beauty was a promise kept. His fame had spread to every single underground network in L2. He had definitely survived, but...
> 
> _Was my survival worth paying that much?_
> 
> No.
> 
> _I should have let myself starve to death. Then I wouldn't be in this stupid ordeal. If I don't get off this colony, if I don't do something about getting my head out of my ass and looking for another option, I'll be a fucktoy till I die._
> 
> His thoughts would probably have continued in this patently depressing vein for a long time had not an irritated female voice interrupted them. "Duo, you really need to stop coming in here at five o'clock in the morning," Hilde's voice yawned at him.
> 
> The girl in question emerged from the hallway looking very sleepy, very rumpled and thoroughly irritated. Duo immediately plastered a smile onto his face. She was wearing her teddy-bear jammies; surely she couldn't be all _that_ mad at him.
> 
> Hah, as if. This _was_ Hilde they were talking about.
> 
> "Am I in trouble, Mother?" Duo queried, dripping sweetness and light.
> 
> "_Yes_," she snarled. "Don't play with me, Duo. You cannot keep coming home this late and that's a _fact_. Do you _know_ how dangerous these streets are?"
> 
> Duo quirked an eyebrow and didn't reply; Hilde flushed as she realized the inanity of the question. Duo, taking pity on her, said sheepishly, "I know, I know. I'm sorry, but I can't get away from the Club any earlier. Did you stay up waiting for me?"
> 
> "Move over," she sighed, yawning again, and obediently Duo scooted. Hilde plopped down and rubbed at her eyes. "Yes, I stayed up. And don't say a word," she cautioned as Duo opened his mouth, then promptly shut it. "I wouldn't be able to go to sleep anyway, Duo." Her face softened. "I get worried, don't you understand? I don't want you getting hurt out there."
> 
> Duo groaned. "Hilde, you've got a day job. You can't stay up every night waiting for me. I'm telling you, my ass is precious and I cover it accordingly."
> 
> She snorted rudely. "I wouldn't have been able to sleep anyway, Duo, until I saw you here safe and sound. You know how dangerous your - your job is. And the streets are rough at night, especially around where you work."
> 
> Duo couldn't face the worry and concern in her earnest gaze and suddenly noticed how fascinating the snarled stiches in the couch were.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> Duo dropped his gaze to the couch, looking every inch the little boy being reprimanded by his caretaker, and she sighed. Again. This was a common occurance around him.
> 
> He _thought_ he was immune against all danger. He _thought_ that if he ever got in real trouble, he could get himself out. Hilde hadn't been raised by the streets as he had been, but didn't she have a right to worry? Anyone could pick Duo out in a crowd; he went through life with a spotlight trained on him and a chorus of adoring fans. And despite his flippancy on the subject, he couldn't seem to grasp that some people were duplicity incarnate. She had gone to an OZ military academy for most of her life - she _knew_ what treachery was. "Duo, _why_ don't you give up your job?" Hilde asked, sweeping a lock of dark blue hair out of her eyes. "You're intelligent, you've got some admirable computer skills, why on Earth don't you get a job elsewhere?"
> 
> Duo stretched elaborately. "A lotta reasons, Hill. First of all, the resentment factor. The girls at my place already hate me because I'm Boss's pet and I'm allowed a little freedom; they'd hate me even worse if I got out of this life while they were stuck in it, and some of them aren't all that stable." As he spoke, he ticked the reasons off on his fingers. "Reason number two: I've got enemies. Most of them are street scum. Some of them aren't and can make my life _difficult_ for me, to say the least." By the wry gleam in his eye, Hilde could tell that "difficult" was the least of it. "Really, Hilde, there's only so much Knife and Dagger can do for me. They've got the rest of the gang to fuss over."
> 
> Knife and Dagger? Her eyes widened. Those two... were the leaders of the gang Regretless. Holy crap, Duo was in this job deep. Arm-in-arm with street leaders even _she_ had heard of.
> 
> Not noticing her reaction, or quite possibly not caring, he plowed on. "Reason number three: I'm not specialized in anything. Nowadays you need five degrees and ten diplomas to be a toilet cleaner. I wouldn't even be able to find a job as an unskilled laborer because of the job shortage right now. The kind of education I need in order to specialize in something can only be found in independent schools, and though I _am_ saving and I _do_ have a few bucks, I don't have enough yet."
> 
> "But you know I can help you with that part of things," Hilde protested. "I'd be glad to give you the money."
> 
> Duo shook his head. "This is _my_ thing, Hilde. I'm grateful for the offer, but I'm not takin' your charity. I already live off you enough as is." As Hilde opened her mouth indignantly, he lifted a hand and gave her a _look_. "Look, Hilde, that's that and I'm not hearin' any protests out of ya." Though his tone was light, the conviction behind his words was unmistakable.
> 
> Realizing that Duo would simply put his head under a couch pillow if she pushed the subject, Hilde shut her mouth and stewed silently. Duo continued, swinging his legs, "Yeah, I'm investigating schools which give scholarships and stuff, and I've been going to the library during the day to study some. The librarian's a nice lady, she used to be a teacher." He grinned. "She says I'm pretty quick on the uptake. I'm only about... eh... a year behind where I should be. Just have to go over that goddamn math..." He trailed off thoughtfully.
> 
> "You must have thought about this a lot," she ventured.
> 
> Duo glanced at her sharply. "You think I like my job, Hilde? I'd do anything to get out of this life. _Anything_," he repeated, his words chill and fierce. "I hate this. It sucks, it's shit, whatever the hell you wanna say about it. But it's all I can do." He spread his hands helplessly. "I can't sit here and leech off you, Hilde. I gotta survive. I don't see no other way but this."
> 
> Impulsively, she hugged him, and Duo stiffened. Her heart twinged oddly, but she ignored its mooning and squeezed tightly before rocking back to look at him. "Look, it's okay," she said softly. "I'm not mad at you, and I understand why you have to do this. I just don't like it. It's not... safe, and you could get sick or something, and--"
> 
> Duo scratched his head and gave her another sheepish glance. "I don't get sick, darlin' 'dee." She gave him a Look of her own and he became defensive. "I don't! I mean, shit, I survived the L2 plague and I was in direct contact most of the time with sick people. The Professor says my immune system's a fortress, that he's never seen anything like it. The only way I could get sick was under stress or something. That's what he says." Duo shrugged. "So the 'getting sick' bit is out. And I've got to keep this job. It pays well, it comes naturally, and it's in an environment I'm familiar with. Quit stressing over it because I'm not giving this position up." He crossed his arms and grinned at her, his expression a dare.
> 
> "_Fine_, Duo," Hilde grated out, temper flaring again at his open rebellion. A corner of her mind scoffed, _And since when is he *your* man, to keep him under a leash? _She ignored the overly perceptive corner and continued in tones of steel, "But I'll tell you this much, it's only going to be temporary. One day, I swear, I'm going over there, and I'm going to free you."
> 
> His grin became teasing. "I could make a stupid joke about bondage fetishes, but I'll refrain and just say this: It's all about ethics, Hilde. You have to have a very open set of ethics. You of all people wouldn't be welcome there." He winked at her. "And besides, I'd overcharge you."
> 
> "Duo!" she yelped.
> 
> "Ah, calm down, I was jokin', Hilde." His eyes had a devious sparkle, but it was something she was used to. "Nah, you wouldn't settle for me anyway."
> 
> "That doesn't matter, Duo," Hilde said awkwardly. The last thing she needed right now was to examine her feelings about the proud, amethyst-eyed youth. "What does matter is that you get some sleep, right now."
> 
> "Mmm. Sounds good," Duo approved, before he rolled over, and before she could blink he was out of it. She had to wonder if that was a talent he'd developed to catch what sleep he could in the days before she met him. Hilde got up, giving him some space; he unfurled his legs and stretched out, taking up all the space on the couch. Duo never slept in anything other than a sprawl.
> 
> Sleeping, as awake, Duo was beautiful. Definitely not innocent - she doubted if he had _ever_ enjoyed innocence - and the only angel he could be was a fallen one - but still so beautiful he made her heart ache. He had scrubbed off whatever make-up he had had to put on, which revealed his true complexion, a spirited creamy color. His heavy lashes lay against his cheek, and moonlight shone through the window to cast silver highlights all along his slim body. His hand trailed off the end of the couch and his mouth was wide open and snoring away. His braid hung over the armrest his head was propped on, slightly mussed, and a portion of it had come loose sometime during the night.
> 
> _Duo, I wasn't joking when I said that one day, I would free you. You can't keep doing this. You're killing yourself inside and I won't stand for it. Duo... you have no idea how much you mean to me._
> 
> Very tenderly, she leaned over him to brush soft bangs away from his face. She left for a moment and returned the next with a pillow under one arm and a quilt under the other. She would have picked him up and carried him to bed; but Duo had told her before that he liked the sofa, it was old and fat and comfortable in a way no bed could achieve.
> 
> So she carefully lifted his head and placed the pillow beneath it; then unfolded the quilt and gently tucked it around him. Duo wore the tiniest of sleepy smiles as he slept, and when she turned to go after dropping a good-night kiss on his forehead, he clutched at her sleeve.
> 
> Alarmed, she looked back. He was still asleep…
> 
> "G'night, Sis," he murmured softly before his fingers relaxed their grip.
> 
> "Oh, Duo," Hilde whispered, before going in to her own bedroom to catch what sleep she could.
> 
> * * *
> 
> the next day
> 
> * * *
> 
> Heero Yuy stalked down the corrider of the Vera Langel Institute, irritated beyond belief and not above letting people know it. His classmates scattered out of his way as he glared out at the world, saving a particularly venomous glance for the guidance counselor's office. He wished to high heaven that he knew _why_ the school had ever hired such an incompetent bitch of a woman. It was obvious that she was treating him only to see if she could break through him and become famous, sharing her success story all over the world.
> 
> "Keep dreaming," Heero growled as he swung his locker open, nearly beaning the poor freshman next to him. No one could break through to him. Not the guidance counselor. Not Dr. J, that crack shrink. Definitely not obsessively maternal Elena, his foster mother, nor clumsy Gregory, his foster father. If Heero's real father hadn't been able to crack his armor, then damned if _they_ could.
> 
> He remembered the time he hacked into the guidance counselor's records and checked out her files on him. They had given him a laugh, anyway, and he had precious little to laugh about these days. He had printed the page out and hung it on the inside of his locker, where other kids hung pictures of their friends or posters of their favorite bands.
> 
> Student Name: Heero Yuy
> 
> Age: 15
> 
> Grade: 10
> 
> Birthday: Celebrated September 6th
> 
> Briefing on student:
> 
> Heero Yuy is a highly gifted and multi-talented child with an IQ in the genius range. Despite obvious brilliance, he is emotionally disturbed, from events which took place early in his childhood. He has clearly not yet recovered. Besides being emotionally volatile, he exhibits antisocial, masochistic, suicidal, psychotic and violent tendencies. He was selectively mute up to age eleven, when he began speaking, though the reasons for his self-imposed silence as well as for his sudden speech have not yet been deduced. He was adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Gregory Mitchell at age eight and before then was repeatedly physically and sexually abused by his father. His mother evidently left the family when Heero was quite young - he does not speak about his mother [see objective 4 on p. 12], thus we know only her name. A teacher noted the scars on his body and sent him to a hospital, where it was discovered that the scars were the result of aforesaid abuse. [See p. 24-27.]
> 
> Progress Made: None.
> 
> Damn straight.
> 
> There would be no progress, not while he was continually treated as the making of some fool shrink's career. There would be no progress, not while he was in control of himself. "Progress," as _they_ defined it, would mean losing the faultless armor which was his only safehold. And that he would not stand for.
> 
> He slammed his locker shut, making the already agitated freshman next to him leap two feet in the air, checked his schedule briefly, then headed towards the cafeteria. People cleared nervously out of his way. Had he still been on the emotional roller coaster he rode when younger, he would have collapsed into a puddle of tears. But that Heero Yuy was no more.
> 
> No, now Heero had a _reputation_, of all things. The irony was laughable when compared to his childhood. Heero didn't really enjoy fighting - he had never enjoyed violence, despite what the fool report said about his 'violent tendencies.' But if someone waltzed up to him and decided that his petite build and delicate looks meant easy pickings, they were soon corrected, put down like lightning. If he broke a few bones of the challenger's bones, well, that wasn't his problem. It did follow logically that if he scared away the would-be tough guys, he'd also be scaring away the gentle people whom he might actually enjoy talking to. But that didn't matter.
> 
> He wanted, very simply, to be left _alone_. It wasn't very difficult to understand, was it?
> 
> "Ohayo, Heero-san!" rang a lovely alto.
> 
> Some people just didn't get the message.
> 
> He had decided long ago that he couldn't begrudge Quatre Winner his attempts at friendliness. Heero didn't exactly _want_ a friend, and besides, Quatre was already quite wrapped up with Trowa. (In Heero's personal opinion, the only thing the obviously enamored couple had left to do was elope.) But Quatre was one of those rare people who _wanted_ to reach out, so Heero sighed and accepted the situation. Quatre wasn't asking anything of him anyway but gracious responses to his overtures; it seemed that all Quatre wanted to do was make him comfortable in the new school, draw him out.
> 
> At least Heero tried to be civil to Quatre, as civil as he could be, anyway. Quatre was a sweet boy who didn't mean badly.
> 
> "Ohayo," he replied, shrugging his bag up a notch on his shoulder.
> 
> Quatre paused by Heero's locker with his easy, open smile on his face, and wistfulness rose in Heero's heart to see such an open expression, the emotion quickly and mercilessly repressed. "Hey, do we have next period together?" Quatre asked curiously.
> 
> Heero shook his head. "Gomen. I have lunch," he added. There. He'd used up his word quota for the day. Let anyone else try to get a sentence out of him.
> 
> Quatre's large aquamarine eyes widened. "Oh, really? Well, I have to go to my Lit class, otherwise I'd stay. I'll talk to you later, ne?" he asked smiling.
> 
> Heero shrugged. _One day he'll give up on me, and then I will never have to see him smile again._
> 
> "Ja ne, Heero." Movement evidently caught Quatre's eye, as he yelled, "Hey, TROWA!"
> 
> The tall, graceful sophomore in question paused at once, leaned back against a locker so as not to be jostled by the stream of people, and offered Quatre a tiny smile. Quatre ran up to him and they walked off together, Quatre talking about something or the other and Trowa nodding in agreement.
> 
> Heero watched them critically as they walked away, disappearing into the crowd in the hallway. It was obvious that Trowa and Quatre were together and _really_ in love with each other; they couldn't have supressed such a thing even if they'd tried. No one really cared - they didn't bother anyone, certainly. Besides, it was rumored that little Quatre had the Maguanac Core on his side – no one knew how – and that quiet-eyed, ever-unruffled Trowa Barton had a mean fist and reflexes quicker than any member of the feline family.
> 
> For any other pair, homosexuality would have been a sin up there with dumping Relena Dorlian. But Trowa and Quatre... what they had was true. No one with a heart could look at them and not feel a little wistful.
> 
> Heero's mouth twisted as he made his way to the cafeteria. _And I won't kid myself. Yeah, I'm jealous of them. But I can't love. I'll get used to it._
> 
> Upon reaching the cafeteria, he flipped out his schedule and glanced at it. He had an hour-long break and nothing better to do than screw with the school's computer system, which he had done a thousand times already. He'd just review his Literature homework; he had the class after this break. They had been assigned an old poem called Dover Beach. Some of the local rich kids had even been to Dover Beach. Heero wasn't among their number. He extricated the crumpled facsimile from his pocket and skimmed it, one verse jumping out at him.
> 
> _Ah, love, let us be true_   
_To one another! for the world, which seems_   
_To lie before us like a land of dreams,_   
_So various, so beautiful, so new,_   
_Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,_   
_Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;_   
_And we are here as on a darkling plain_   
_Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,_   
_Where ignorant armies clash by night. _[1]
> 
> The verse, except for the part exhorting love to be true, could have been written for him.
> 
> He grabbed a tray, indifferently chose a hamburger, fries and some limp salad for lunch, and plopped down alone at a table, pointedly shoving his bookbag besides him in case some foolhardy soul decided to sit next to him. There was only one person who would dare. Unfortunately, she also happened to be one of the very few people he couldn't bring himself to sock in the face.
> 
> Relena Dorlian.
> 
> Heero didn't know why, but the girl persisted in tormenting him. Sitting next to him in whatever classes they shared. Writing him notes. Asking him the homework. Calling him on the phone. She was pathetic, exactly like all the other girls in this rich-kid school. And while he was at it, exactly like all of the pampered, spoiled boys. He was probably one of the few teenagers who actually used the work-out room regularly and not just for show.
> 
> He could stand precious few people in this school. He wasn't antisocial; there was simply no one here he cared to associate with. There was no one here worth making himself weak for. The only person he might have considered was Quatre. But Quatre had Trowa.
> 
> A warbling trill cut through his thoughts.
> 
> "Heeeeerrro!"
> 
> _Speak not of the devil lest he appear._ He could almost have winced at Relena's pronunciation of his name - her r's made his name sound like the word Hero, obviously what she desired him to be for her. His real name, said properly, was crisp, sharp, and over with quickly. No matter, of course - there could be no convincing her otherwise if _she_ thought she was right. And she was prancing right his way.
> 
> He ignored her, staring ahead of him with rock-hard eyes, chewing fixedly on his hamburger.
> 
> The girl was pretty enough if you went for that sort of thing. Soft cornflower blue eyes that blazed with passionate fire whenever someone opposed her. Rich wheat-blonde hair that fell to the half of her back. An innocent demeanor and supposedly endearing naivete. The girl actually believed that pacifism was possible, and was probably directly influencing Vice-Minister Dorlian to try to reach it. Not that the Foreign Vice-Minister needed the pushing anyway.
> 
> She smiled happily at him, delicately pushing his bookbag off of its seat to become its unwelcome replacement. She smoothed down her long navy skirt and asked sweetly, "Heero, what did you think of last night's assignment? Wasn't that such a _sad_ poem?"
> 
> He let her words hang in the air, then looked at her. The look in his eyes could almost have been called pity.
> 
> Then he rose, ducking once to snag his bookbag's straps and lifting it up with one arm. With the other arm he picked up his lunch tray and cleared it, depositing it on top of the trash can as he made his way out. Silence descended as he left, tears rising in Relena's eyes.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> Relena sighed tremulously and swallowed, blinking away the tears, her happy face gone. It simply wasn't fair. She _loved_ him -- there were so many other boys that would die for her favors. Why was it that the one guy she really wanted treated her like so much dog crap?
> 
> He was beautiful -- just looking at him made her heart beat faster. Bright Prussian blue eyes like twin faceted jewels. Tousled dark brown hair which spiked wherever it pleased, giving him a lofty I-dun-care attitude. That fine body, graceful and muscular and well-formed. She liked his hands best; they were small but _strong_. He could draw like a pro, write like an angel, dance like a dream and with his grades, he was definitely going to go places later in life. Maybe he was a little messed-up, but surely a woman's touch could heal that. She sniffled, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand. All he needed was someone to care for him and she was simply ideal. She was compassionate enough, certainly. She could understand him.
> 
> Maybe one day, if he could just drop his shields and deign to speak to her...
> 
> Deign. Usually people were falling all over themselves to talk to her. She bit her lip against a whimper, but tears spilled over, coursing down her cheeks.
> 
> "Hey, Miss Relena, what's the matter?" her friend Amelia asked concernedly, sitting down besides her in the space Heero had occupied but a few seconds ago.
> 
> "Yeah, what's wrong?" Another of her friends came over, equally concerned. Soon the small table was surrounded by a small anxious hub of people. "Come on Miss Relena, smile. Don't let that jerk take away your smile! He doesn't deserve you! Come on, you're so pretty when you smile."
> 
> For them, for her friends, she put on a brave front and smiled a tiny smile. "Thanks, everyone…"
> 
> "Don't cry over Heero," Amelia said firmly, putting one hand on her shoulder comfortingly. How she wished that comforting touch came from those hands of Heero's. Amelia continued. "Seriously, if you cry over a guy and he doesn't even say _sorry_, he's _so_ not worth it!"
> 
> "I don't understand him," she whispered. "I try to be nice to him…You guys all know that I really, really like him but I just don't think he feels the same way back."
> 
> Amelia patted her shoulder, and her friend Clara gave her a hug from behind. "Don't worry," Clara assured her. "There are plenty of really cute guys out there who like you. Why pick some ice cube of a guy?"
> 
> "Talk about cold," came another girl's airy soprano. "I mean, when he glares at you, you go *brrr*!"
> 
> The girls giggled, and Clara hugged her again. "I'm telling you, Miss Relena, please don't stress out on us! You deserve so much better than to get yourself all worked up over some guy!"
> 
> Relena looked up into the faces of her friends gathered around her. They... were right. There were a lot of other fish out in the sea.
> 
> But she didn't want them. She wanted Heero. Strong and independent Heero. It wasn't just an obsession.
> 
> If it were, then her heart wouldn't break every time he rose to leave her. If it were just infatuation, then every time she looked up at her friends, she wouldn't desperately wish that among them was Heero. If it was a schoolgirl's silly crush, then she wouldn't stand uncomfortably during dates with other boys when they tried to hug or even worse, kiss her.
> 
> Yeah. Relena sighed and made the proper noises of being mollified to satisfy her friends, then let them escort her to her next class. She had it bad for him, and she couldn't even do a damned thing.
> 
> * * *
> 
> [1] This verse is from the lovely poem _Dover Beach _by Matthew Arnold, ca. 1851.   

> 
> * * *
> 
> [chang_meiran@mailcity.com][1]

   [1]: mailto:chang_meiran@mailcity.com?subject=ADSTB



	2. Good Boys

  


> * * *
>
>> > * * *
>>> 
>>> A Darker Shade Than Black
>>> 
>>> Part II
>>> 
>>> * * *
> 
> * * *

>   
He hated his psychiatrist.
> 
> Reclining on the couch his psychiatrist seemed so inordinately insistent that he recline upon, Heero closed his eyes, doing his best to ignore the man. It wasn't working. The psychiatrist had a harsh, grating, rasping, altogether unpleasant voice. That, combined with the heavy rain rattling the windows outside, was enough to drive any one to screaming madness. But Dr. J wanted exactly that, therefore, it would be the one thing Dr. J would never see from him.
> 
> Heero couldn't help but feel that Dr. J never wanted to be a psychiatrist, and honestly couldn't blame him. Who would want to spend all their waking hours with a variety of society's rejects? There was always that slightly manic gleam to the aging man's artificial eyes, as if he were focused on something no one else knew about.
> 
> "So, do you know much of anything about the Federation?" asked Dr. J, straying from his monologue on the damage masochism could inflict on people. The irony had not been lost on Heero.
> 
> This unexpected question perked Heero up, and he barely inclined his head towards Dr. J. Encouraged, Dr. J continued. "Why don't you give me a briefing on the current situation then, Mr. Mitchell?"
> 
> "Yuy."
> 
> "Whatever."
> 
> Heero sighed and glanced at the clock. Twenty more minutes. He might as well favor the old guy. "Basically, the Federation has taken over the Earth, and the colonies, and is using military force to impose its beliefs onto the citizens of the world. They talk about peace but it's a bunch of crap even I can see through. They're all unified in their purpose, however, which is to gain absolute power, so I doubt they'll fall any time soon."
> 
> "Very good, Heero!" Dr. J complimented with a grin, revealing sparkling artificial teeth. Heero wondered fleetingly if the man had anything natural left. "What's your opinion?"
> 
> Heero shrugged. "It does not affect me."
> 
> Dr. J leaned forward, and the strange artificial green eyes rotated once with a soft _whirr_ and click as they set themselves back in place. "Oh, it doesn't, young Heero? You're an L2 colony citizen, are you not? What if your parents were killed?"
> 
> "I wouldn't care," came the flat, cold answer. "The Mitchells are only my legal guardians." _I lost my parents a long time ago._
> 
> The old man raised a grayed eyebrow. "You don't care about the Mitchells?"
> 
> "I already said," Heero grated, "they're not my parents."
> 
> "Then, what about your real parents? Your mother, your father? What did you think about them? Did you love them?" the doctor prodded.
> 
> That word startled him. The dark head of hair jerked towards Dr. J, and the aged psychiatrist noted the trapped look in the sharp blue eyes. "Love?" he asked, his tongue stumbling over the word.
> 
> "Yes, love," Dr. J repeated, a little impatiently.
> 
> _Love…_
> 
> Unbeknownst to Heero, a faint smirk had appeared on his face, curving his lips only the slightest bit upwards. Love. Yeah, that's what his father had told him. Told him he was going to show the little boy the right way to love. Told him he was punishing him because he loved him, because bad boys needed direction.
> 
> And his mother? Hah. She had been a weak and delicate excuse for a human. _Like mother, like son. _She was easily cowed over by the threatening ways of Heero's father.
> 
> * * *
> 
> *flashback*
> 
> * * *
> 
> "Please, Gabriel, not when Heero's here," my mother pleaded, her wide, frightened brown eyes darting towards me. My mother was a pretty woman, but she got scared a lot, and when that happened I had to protect her. I gazed back solemnly. She swallowed hard and turned back towards my father. "I-I-It's not right to do this in f-front of Heero, he's still just a b-b-baby, he shouldn't see th-this -- "
> 
> "Who the hell are you to tell me what's right and what's wrong, you fucking whore!?" the man snarled, hurling his beer bottle at her. He missed and it hit the wall and shattered. A shard flew out and cut my leg. I clamped my mouth shut and didn't make a noise. My father was not half as pretty as my mother, especially not when he was angry. He had dark blue eyes that made me feel cold when he looked at me and spiky black hair.
> 
> Tears came into my mother's eyes and I got mad but I still didn't say nothing. It wasn't fair that my father was making Kaasan unhappy and frightened. Well, lots of things weren't fair, but this was happening in my own house! "Gabriel, please understand," she pleaded, dropping to her knees in supplication and shaking as she bowed her head, "the man was just asking me for directions…"
> 
> Gabriel growled like an animal and picked her up by her dress, spitting into her face with every word he said. She stared back with wide, frightened eyes. "You don't deserve to live," Gabriel spat at her, "you and your damned bastard child. What good does that dumb little moron do?" He jabbed a finger at me, huddled in the corner. "Does he pay the rent? Does he pay the bills?"
> 
> Mother was trembling. Mother was crying. She could only shake her head.
> 
> Gabriel flung her away from him. She hit the wall hard. I could hear her head crack against it. She slid down, dazed, among the shards of glass. "This damn well better not happen again, you goddamned thankless bitch!" he roared at her. Then he turned around and slammed the door, kicking me as he left. I guess he was going to drink that stuff or use that weird needle that smelled funny. I didn't know.
> 
> Even though Mother had gotten hurt, she saw me in the corner and opened her arms. I ran into them and she rocked me then, crying, her tears wetting the fabric of my shirt. She was whispering something. I listened; she was telling me she was sorry. Over and over. I hugged her neck and let myself cry a little too.
> 
> When she was done, I rocked back in her lap and looked up at her critically. "Why you marry him? If he so bad?"
> 
> She sniffled. "I never married him, itooshi. That's why he called you a bastard child." Her hands softly caressed my hair. "I used to love him, once. But don't ... don't worry about it, Hee-chan. It's better that he hits me, and not you.."
> 
> I pursed my lips. I did not approve. Tersely I inquired, "He not my da?"
> 
> She gathered me close and I obliged, snuggling up to her. "He's not the man I once knew, Hee-chan. He's your sire, but it takes more than seed to be a 'da.'"
> 
> She had gone beyond me there. "He a bad da," I said firmly. "A good da doesn't hit the ma or the me."
> 
> Mother hugged me. "You're right, Hee-chan. A man... a real man would never hit a woman or a child. Remember that, Heero. I want you to grow up to be a real man. Never do what your father is doing now."
> 
> "Can I... can I go play outside with my friends?" I asked cautiously, unsure if she needed me anymore right this second.
> 
> She sighed and let me go. "Of course you can. Just be careful." She looked around at the mess around her and sighed again. "I have to clean up this mess anyway."
> 
> "Oh." I scowled fiercely. One day I would pay my da back for hurting Mother so bad. "Then I'll stay and I'll help you, 'kaasan."
> 
> She smiled at the Japanese word, a quivering smile. "Hee-chan, whatever I go through... just having you there is worth it. I had you too young," her face shadowed, "but I do have you."
> 
> "How young was you when I happened?"
> 
> "Sixteen, Hee-chan," she said softly, and then we got to work.
> 
> * * *
> 
> three years later   

> 
> * * *
> 
> I was used to filth, used to dirt, used to pain, immune to it all.
> 
> Gabriel had shifted his target sights to me; Mom had disappeared two years ago and he never told me what happened. I was six years old and I no longer cared, except that now Mother wasn't there. My days were endless as were my nights. All of it became a never-ending cycle of pain and abuse and the tired struggle to survive. I cried only when I deemed that was when Gabriel would be satisfied.
> 
> I remember when Gabriel broke my arm, just twisted it off at the elbow. He was drunk, he usually was. I don't know what I did to push him to that point. I must have done something. I just don't remember it.
> 
> I had come home from school, where all of the first-graders stayed away from me. Weird Heero Yuy, with the dirty, stinking clothing, that nasty little tanktop and the ugly spandex shorts. Winter, spring, summer or fall, that was my outfit. I didn't care what they thought about me. The older kids would beat me up while other people cheered, and I would lay there and take it. I didn't care.
> 
> I came home that day with a stomach snarling with hunger. The school required its children to eat the school lunches, but I had been personally informed by Gabriel that if I so much as tried, he'd wear me out. I disobeyed him once. He forced me to throw up when I got home. When I vomited hamburger meat, he knew of my disobedience. He forced ammonia down my throat as punishment. I had been unable to speak for a time following that, using my throat unbelievably painful. I had barely been able to swallow food.
> 
> I saw him when I came home, sprawled on the sofa, his great fat belly pouring out over his belt. He glared at me through bleary eyes. "Wha're doin' 'ome, yooooou," he slurred. "Bast'rd, why're in ma 'ouse, goway. Go t' yer bitchuva mudder."
> 
> I stood there, my mind feebly trying to comprehend. He lurched to his feet. "I sa' goWAY," he protested drunkenly, and stumbled towards me. "Yura bad boy, yur supposed t' 'bey yur futhur!"
> 
> I tried to run – but Gabriel was always faster than me. Even drunk and fat. I was reminded that some of the fat had once been muscle. He grabbed me by the shoulder as I did my best to flee.
> 
> I had always been a small child. His hand was larger than my whole shoulder. He grabbed it with his right hand, and with his left seized my corresponding arm and began to twist it.
> 
> He loved this and I didn't know why, didn't know, didn't know. The manic grin he wore every time he struck me, the bloodlust in his eyes every time I collapsed. He didn't stop when he solicited a pain-stricken whimper from me, nor when the crack of bone rang through the air.
> 
> I screamed in pain beyond tears. I knew I had to do something, anything, if I wanted to survive – I had to scream, had to beg for help. I needed that arm. I tried to tug myself away, every movement sending volts of electricity down my body.
> 
> He was twisting my arm like a screwdriver, and grunting happily, "Thatta show ya t' dis'bey ME, eh li'l boy, eh?"
> 
> My screams faded. Black ducked in to invade my vision and he slapped me soundly on the side of the head, chasing the black away. My knees fell, but Gabriel did not let go of my arm. Tears, an automatic reaction to pain, began to seep from my eyes. It was futile anyway. No one was coming. No one would swoop in to rescue me.
> 
> My mom wasn't going to rescue me, I realized with a start. That was who I had been screaming for. 'Kaasan. Mother. My weak mother, who had let herself be pushed around by Gabriel even though she could have run away long ago.
> 
> I was not able to realize that she stayed to shield me from Gabriel's mindless rage.
> 
> Blackness swept over me again and I fell limply against Gabriel's stomach, shuddering. He gave my arm one good final wrench and shoved me away, letting me drop to the floor, where my wrung arm banged with another electric painful jolt on the floor.
> 
> A small, high-pitched whimper filled the air. I was somewhat surprised to discover that the source of the pathetic sound was me. The pain was so deep, so all-encompassing, that I could no longer feel it. I was caught in a blue flame, feeling the throb of fire, but not its fierce bites. I felt dizzy. Dizzy, falling down...
> 
> Numbness devoured my body as another shudder raced through it. My left side was slick with blood, and I could see white bone peering out at daylight. That was odd…I was practically missing half an arm. My lower arm was hanging on pathetically by a few strands of severed tendon, muscle and skin. My tears kept falling as I forced myself to gather the hanging lower half - to cradle it - I choked on my sobs of pain -
> 
> Gabriel looked upon me the way a normal person might survey a dying cockroach; devoid of emotion, flatly uncaring. "Now I'v-a take ya to d' 'ospital. See what chou gone 'n made me do. Tell 'em…tell 'em it got caught in-a car door."
> 
> * * *
> 
> *end flashback*   

> 
> * * *
> 
> "Heero, are you all right?"
> 
> Heero was gazing out the window blankly, cradling his left arm and obviously not paying a whit of attention to Dr. J. He didn't answer Dr. J's question.
> 
> Dr. J repeated it with all of an old man's querulousness. "Hello? Heero?"
> 
> Arubtly the boy blinked; then he dropped his arms and stared at the psychiatrist as if he had been caught doing something gravely wrong.
> 
> "I'm not going to hurt you," Dr. J snapped. "Do you need an Advil? Pain meds? Anything? Want to talk about it?"
> 
> "If I did, I would."
> 
> Dr. J sighed. "Well, boy, I'll let you out early for now, alright? You go on home to your parents."
> 
> "They're not my parents," Heero said quietly.
> 
> "Fine then," Dr. J capitulated irritatedly, "your legal guardians. Are you satisfied?"
> 
> Heero shrugged and left the room.
> 
> The doctor sighed, and scrawled something down on his clipboard.
> 
> Call G and ask him how his plan is going.
> 
> He paused for a moment before adding resentfully, Hang up if he starts bragging.
> 
> * * *
> 
>   

> 
> * * *
> 
> "My price is six thousand, my good man, I'm not doing it for less," Duo said in the soft, coaxing voice that not even Hilde was resistant against.
> 
> The mushroom-haired professor before him exhaled sharply. Shooting mental daggers at the fifteen-year-old vision of male loveliness before him, he insisted, "Four thousand."
> 
> Duo instantly dropped his soft demeanor and stood up, banging the table purposefully. He bored into Professor G's skeptical eyes. "This is an assassination," Duo hissed, enunciating his words, his voice quite clearly conveying his opinion of the Professor's intelligence. "That means I'm charging whatever the hell I feel like charging. I am the only person you can trust not to spill a word to _anyone_. I am also the only person around who can carry out this thing with one shot and not double-cross you. Pay me six grand, and by the time the day is out, I swear to you that Foreign Vice-Minister Dorlian will be dead."
> 
> With a sound of disgust Professor G. crossed his arms. "Duo Maxwell – "
> 
> "Take it or leave it!" Duo whirled around, presenting the Professor with his back, and crossed his own arms in defiance. "Six thousand. I either get my money, or my Regretless buddies spread your _real_ identity all over the streets. Don't think OZ _or_ the Federation would like knowing that you're a colony subversive, eh? And you _know_ that Regretless has got a lot of purchase up in the offices."
> 
> "Are you _blackmailing_ me?" the Professor demanded indignantly.
> 
> Duo was unruffled. "Damn fucking straight."
> 
> "Fine, then," the Professor said tensely. "Street rat. Deal."
> 
> Duo turned around and grinned at him. "Thanks, man. It's only 'cause I need the money," he added apologetically. "Otherwise I wouldn't blackmail like that."
> 
> "Hn," the Professor grunted gracelessly.
> 
> The boy yawned, flung his arms out in a stretch and plopped himself back down on his seat. "So why do you want me to kill him anyway, just out of curiosity?"
> 
> "It's for OZ," the Professor said evasively. "Even though they haven't detached themselves from the Federation yet, Treize's OZ holds very different beliefs from that of the Federation leaders. OZ says that Foreign Vice-Minister's talk of peace is going to flame up the Federation and only make them tighten their militaristic control." He shrugged. "Khushrenada's excuse."
> 
> Duo nodded. "So what's _your_ stand? D'ya even care?"
> 
> The Professor shrugged again. "I'd much rather be working on something technical or scientific in nature. Politics are nothing more than fancy words and lofty ideals. OZ's beloved Treize is completely twisted. He makes no sense."
> 
> "Then why are you following his orders?" Duo had whipped out a nail file and nonchalantly gotten to work on his nails, filing as he spoke, amusingly enough. Such a very feminine action; it seemed that Duo's work had affected him more than he thought.
> 
> "If I don't, I'm dead, and I have some unfinished business to take care of that requires my survival," Professor G replied vaguely.
> 
> Duo nodded understandingly, blew on his fingernails and shook the hand slightly to rid himself of the dusty chips of filed nail, then reached over to a table and somehow located a small bottle filled with a clear liquid. He shook it, then uncapped it, letting the slightly sickening smell of nail polish permeate the air.
> 
> The Professor was startled to the point of staring.
> 
> Feeling eyes on him, Duo looked up to see the old professor gaping at him. He met the Professor's stare blankly before the reason hit him, and he laughed as he applied the nail polish to his left hand. "Heh, I can't believe something actually shocked you! Old man, the make-up shit is a necessary part of my job. Besides, it looks nice, so relax. How's your search for a perfect pilot going, by the way?" he asked conversationally.
> 
> Professor G pursed his lips, having recovered from his momentary agitation. "It's been quite unsuccessful. I'll have to take a different route if I want to slow the Federation down."
> 
> "Wanna say that a little louder so that everyone out there can hear you?"
> 
> "I was not loud."
> 
> "The building's insulation sucks, so whisper. Or speak in a voice as low as mine." Duo switched to applying nail polish to his finely-boned right hand and the Professor snuck covert and fascinated glances. "By the way, is there anything I should know, anything specific, any outside factors that could possibly conflict with the completion of the assassination order? I could find him on my own," Duo said somewhat defensively, "but make my job a little easier, ne?"
> 
> "Strike at around seven o'clock tonight," Professor G. said briskly. "Go to Federation Building #49. Are you familiar with it?"
> 
> "The obscenely rich-looking place on Riverdrive and 145th, right?"
> 
> "Exactly. Dorlian will be going to a short meeting with a few Federation big shots. Negotiations of some sort. Shoot when he emerges from his limousine, then disappear. In the flurry, no one will notice you."
> 
> "Oh, so -- okay. Got it." Done with the nail polish, he capped the bottle and tossed it in a cabinet in his desk. The Professor could see a few other make-up applications that somehow or the other he recognized - before a slim-fingered hand slammed it shut, raising sheets of dust into the air. Duo wrinkled his nose and sneezed. "Gomen, Prof. My office's a _mess_. I'm telling you, I seriously need a new place."
> 
> "I noticed," Professor G. said dryly.
> 
> Duo shook the fingers of his hands to try to make them dry quicker, then, realizing that that course of action wasn't really going to help any, blew on them impatiently. "That's the problem with nail polish, it takes way too long to dry, and the ones that dry quickly aren't worth the piss they're made out of…When will I be paid?"
> 
> The Professor felt a faint sense of relief that Duo had changed the subject from nail polish. Perhaps it was just him, but he couldn't help feeling highly disturbed whenever Duo showed signs of feminism…you just didn't expect it from a fifteen-year-old boy. Most teen boys managed to ooze testosterone. Duo was an interesting child indeed. He derailed that train of thought and muttered, "You will be paid for your services by next - "
> 
> "Nope," Duo interrupted, light tone belied by the hardening of those large violet eyes. "We have been over this before, Professor. You will pay me now."
> 
> Professor G glared at him and snapped, "_No_, Duo. I have to wait until we receive verification of Dorlian's death."
> 
> Duo rolled his eyes. "Be glad I'm asking, Professor. You know perfectly well I could get the money out of your pocket right now."
> 
> "So then why don't you?" Professor G challenged.
> 
> "Because I'm so nice, I don't take money from old men." Duo sighed. "Give it up. You know you can trust me with this kind of stuff, I've done it before."
> 
> The Professor gave up – the boy simply did not shut up when he wanted something, especially money - and shoved his briefcase over the table to Duo, whose face positively lit up. "Here," said the Professor curtly. "_By tonight_."
> 
> "Thank you very much," Duo chirped, grinning. He stood up and bowed ironically. "Don't worry, Prof. I'm the Demon. Hell, I'm _Shinigami_. I won't fail you."
> 
> * * *
> 
>   

> 
> * * *
> 
> Wufei sat more or less placidly in his garden, a brisk wind ruffling his hair, absorbing what he was reading with scholarly interest. They were truly fascinating, the theories of Locke and Rousseau on the relationship of the individual and the government. Though their high-flown ideals had obviously resulted in no widespread gain of justice, they had had such radical ideas for their times. It was fairly ironical that the primary Federation stronghold on Earth was where the United States had once been, and everyone knew that the famed American Constitution had been based on Locke's and Rousseau's work.
> 
> "Do you ever do anything _but_ read, Wufei?" came his wife's contemptuous voice, snapping him out of his musings, much to his annoyance. Meiran jogged over in her customary gray outfit and crossed her arms as she glared down at him. "Does the real world even exist for you?"
> 
> _Ancestors give me patience. _Wufei closed his eyes, the idyllic calm of the day now ruined. "You should be glad I even bothered to move to this colony cluster, Meiran, instead of staying with the Elders to die a noble death."
> 
> As he knew she would, Meiran flared up. "I beg your pardon, your Majesty," she said sarcastically, placing her hands on her hips. "I figured you'd be thankful if I tried to prolong our life span and thus that of our Clan. I should have known that the mighty Chang Wufei would be oblivious to all such mortal actions."
> 
> "We exited illegally. All members of the Dragon Clan were supposed to stay on L5."
> 
> "Too bad I'm not a good little girl, huh then, Wufei?"
> 
> "Decidedly unfortunate."
> 
> "If I were a good little girl, then I'd acquiesce to the fact that there's no justice in this world too, right?"
> 
> He was not going to let her get to him. "You're learning."
> 
> She sighed irritatedly. "You're getting to me, Wufei."
> 
> He smiled despite himself. It was almost an unspoken game between them. Who could annoy the other first? A battle of sharp wits. In that area, at least, Meiran seldom failed him.
> 
> Unless they were discussing justice, a topic on which Meiran was positively rabid. How someone could so fervently defend justice when it was so obvious that none existed was beyond him.
> 
> "Besides," she said defensively, "we only exited illegally according to the Federation. Our move was requested, encouraged, and sanctioned by the Chief Elder. The Federation just wanted to trap us and let us die in that ancient wreck of a colony."
> 
> "Thanks to your brilliant idea of moving, the Chief Elder and all the others of the Dragon Clan are no longer around," Wufei informed her. He snorted. "So much for your 'justice.' All it did was kill good people."
> 
> Meiran gave him a withering glare, her dark ebony eyes sending veritable sparks his way. "They sacrificed themselves that the Dragon Clan might continue on with us. For your information, I wanted to stay and fight and bring OZ and the Federation to justice, but the Chief Elder decreed otherwise. All the Elders chose to blow up the colony and take out the Federation forces. They wanted the Dragon Clan to carry on with us, which is why they sent us out here in the first place!" She turned away, back rigid, and Wufei could just feel the sarcasm radiating off her. "Though I don't see how _that's_ ever going to happen."
> 
> "For once I agree," Wufei said, the faintest hint of red brushing his face. He gave up on reading. "I'm afraid we're doomed to be a childless couple."
> 
> Meiran began to throw practiced punches and kicks into the air, not facing him. "No, we're not. We _have_ to have children. Certainly not now, but it's our – well – duty."
> 
> Wufei could definitely feel his face heat up. "Meiran, you're insane. We can't have children together."
> 
> "And why not?" she challenged, though he noticed that she carefully avoided facing him as she paraded around the garden practicing her techniques. "Physically there's nothing wrong with either of us, and we're going to have to someday. Even you have to care about the Dragon Clan, Chang Wufei, and let's face it – we are all that's left. I'll be damned before I let _you_ be the last surviving member of _my_ Clan."
> 
> "Thanks so much," Wufei muttered, carefully trying to control his blush. Meiran would never let him live it down if she saw him actually redden. But he couldn't resist adding another question. "Honestly, Meiran, how could we -- stand -- ?"
> 
> "We'd find a way," she answered shortly, and turned around.
> 
> _Damn._
> 
> Her eyes turned from uncomfortable to downright gleeful when she saw the expression on her husband's face. "Wufei, I never would have thought you capable of it. Showing human emotion." She threw her hands up and grinned. "Proof! You're not a god, Wufei, you're a mere mortal like the rest of us!"
> 
> "And you'd do well to remember that, _Nataku_," he retorted.
> 
> She snorted at him. "Low blow, Wufei. I'm the closest thing to a Nataku that the Dragon Clan has left, so it's no use making fun of me for it. And I _can_ fight, which is more than I can say for you. All you do is sit with your nose in a damned book when I _know_ that you could become a warrior. And a good one, too."
> 
> "Hn. What point is there to fighting in mobile suits? How can anyone find your so-called 'justice' when they can't even see each other's face?"
> 
> "The point is in knowing that _you_ can find it. There's no need to brag or boast about it, so long as you are secure in the knowledge that it's out there. Waiting to be found."
> 
> "Well, as soon as you find it, you just tell me," Wufei said sardonically, and resumed his interrupted reading. There was a cool, sweet-smelling breeze riffling the flowers and leading loose, silky strands of black hair away from their convenient ponytailed state on Wufei's head.
> 
> "By the way, Wufei," Meiran remarked innocently, "we're attending a school on this colony starting Monday. The Vera Langel Institute."
> 
> Wufei's head snapped up from his reading for the second time that day. "_What?!_"
> 
> She smiled. "We'll be going into the tenth grade."
> 
> "Oh honestly, onna," Wufei snapped, "the last thing I need is school. I study independently, remember? What can I possibly learn there that can be of any use to me?"
> 
> Meiran's eyes narrowed, and she reached down and snatched the book from his hands. "How about people skills?"
> 
> "I don't _want_ people skills!" Wufei was vaguely aware that he sounded like a whining child. He didn't care and allowed his voice to rise to a near screech. "The last thing I need is people skills! Since when do scholars need _people skills_?!"
> 
> For a moment, worry flashed across his young wife's face. Meiran glanced down at the cover of the book she was holding and a small, ironic smile quirked. "Locke and Rousseau, eh, Wufei?" Before Wufei could snap anything, Meiran sighed. "Scholars must also be dipomats, beloved husband. The fact that we're here can't have gone unnoticed. One day, we may be called upon to explain the actions of the Dragon Clan. And if I can't fight for you, Wufei, you'll be on your own."
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> Quatre was, not to put too fine a point upon it, worried sick.
> 
> "Dad, please tell me what's going on," he pleaded as he and his fathers stood on a balcony overlooking the interior of the factory. The laborers rushed from place to place, gray dabs of color on a factory backdrop. "I think I have a right to know."
> 
> The elder Winner placed a hand on his son's golden head and sighed, not noticing how his son winced at the unconsciously patronizing gesture. "The Federation is splitting up into two, Quatre - the Federation, and OZ. And both factions are demanding an alliance with the Winner corporation. OZ hasn't publicly declared itself against the Federation, but it's bound to happen, and then war will break…they seek my favor early. But both of them are equally threatening to peace." Wearily, the older man said, "I won't do it."
> 
> Intelligent turquoise eyes surveyed the factory. If that was the situation, then the tension and anxiety pervading the place was a herald of worse things to come. "What will they do to try and force your hand?"
> 
> His father shrugged. "Bribery, certainly. Perhaps they'll take a hostage, though somehow I don't believe Treize Khushrenada would favor that course of action. There could always be an attempt on my life, then one on yours -- and none of your sisters are trained for business. They chose what to do with their lives a long time ago, and none of them wanted a thing to do with business. Winner Corporation would go to pieces if both of us were lost, or it would become a government holding."
> 
> Quatre bit his lip, the gears in his mind working as he clutched the handrailing. If OZ or the Federation got a hold of the Winner fortune and all the resources that the family commanded... the result would be disastrous for peace.
> 
> "Father, you're a braver man than I'll ever be," he said softly. "If I were you, with the knowledge that assassination might be attempted, I'd hire a million bodyguards."
> 
> "I'm an old man, and I always have you to carry on for me." His father smiled with a mouth pinched with exhaustion. "It's your life that can't be spared. Mine... is forfeit."
> 
> "Father, that's not true!" Quatre's mouth dropped open and he stared up at his father. "You can't just not do anything if you _know_ that an attempt on your life could be made any day! I'm still a minor, Father."
> 
> "And the only eligible heir to the company," his father retorted. "Minor or not, you have sense and I would trust in you to run this company without error. And I am planning. I'm -- I'm gathering supplies on this colony in case, ah, the Federation decides to blockade us."
> 
> "That doesn't make any sense, Father!" Blockading? Where had the elder Winner pulled _that_ from? "That's about the last thing they'll do. If I were in their position, first I'd try winning you over, then I'd try eroding public trust in you, and _then_ I'd try assassination. The L4 citizens are already murmuring about being oppressed, thanks to OZ. Father, I'm sure the Maguanacs will be more than happy to act as a defensive unit --"
> 
> "No." Quatre opened his mouth to protest and the older man lifted a hand. "There would be fighting. I'm a pacifist, Quatre. So are you. The Winners have always been pacifists, and in war, we have always declared neutrality. I'm not going to change that tradition now."
> 
> "Neutrality won't work in a war that will flame the people up like this! Father, I believe in peace too, you know that!" Quatre cried in frustration. "But we have to _do_ something! We can't just sit around and wait like sitting ducks! That's just what we are! We'll put the colony and everyone who depends on Winner resources and justice in danger if we just keep doing nothing!"
> 
> "You call this nothing?" His father swept a hand above the crowd of laborers. "You think this effort is nothing?"
> 
> "That's not the kind of effort I'm talking about," Quatre said in a low voice, forcing calm. "Blockading -- " He barked a laugh. "That's the last thing OZ and the Federation will think of. It would be inanely stupid, and neither organization is stupid. You know that I believe in peace just as much as you do. But sometimes, you have to fight to defend peace."
> 
> "No, Quatre," his father said gently in mollification. Quatre's chin jerked up at the patronization -- again the sullen teen he'd used to be. "A pacifist doesn't fight."
> 
> "Makes it damn easy to kill a pacifist, then," Quatre said bitterly, looking down at the floor. "Father, I can't believe you're doing this. Don't you value your own life?"
> 
> His father sighed sharply. "Don't get fresh with me, Quatre. Just stay in school, stay with your friends, and stay _out_ of this foul business, for Allah's sake." The older man checked his watch and pursed his lips. "And you've just made me late for an appointment. No more talk of fighting or of bodyguards, Quatre. Go do your schoolwork."
> 
> Quatre glared silently at the floor as the sounds of his father's swift footsteps faded away. He was the sole Winner heir, and it was his _duty_ as such to protect his family and his people to what extent as he could. What was his father trying to do? Did he think Quatre too delicate for such things? No, that wasn't possible, Mr. Winner knew him much better than that.
> 
> If so, then his father also knew that the last thing Quatre was planning on doing was retiring quietly to school.
> 
> Something would have to be done, and damned if Quatre wasn't the only person who could do just that.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> [chang_meiran@mailcity.com][1]

   [1]: mailto:chang_meiran@mailcity.com



	3. Spare the Children

> * * *
>
>> > * * *

A Darker Shade Than Black

Part III

> > > * * *
> 
> * * *

>   
A boy clad entirely in black slipped down the street, wholly indiscernible from the shadows skulking with him. Citizens, carry on with your lives, just ignore Shinigami over there.
> 
> _Perfect_, Duo thought, eyes gleaming with anticipation. He smugly patted the gun in his pocket. _Just enough for the job - a pistol'll do it. Humans are killed too easily._ He conveniently chose to ignore the fact that he was also human, and instead sprinted forth.
> 
> Duo had been forced by necessity to scram to Riverdrive and 145th during a short break, his only break that night. He hadn't even had the chance to change, so he was dressed in body-hugging black leather, though at least he had torn off his heels and shoved his feet into sneakers. Now that he thought about it, all of the outfits he had to wear during the course of the night were irritatingly restrictive and oustandingly tight. Iif the leather had been any freaking tighter, spontaneous castration would have been a real possibility.
> 
> He shuddered. _An image I didn't need._ What he'd give for a baggy sweatshirt and some jeans...
> 
> He snapped out of his wistful musings to check the address of the building he was up to. He could see the ugly Federation building rising up before him, with the granite-inset numbers carved above the entrance. #49. Cue dramatic organ chords.
> 
> Slipping out of stealth mode, he strolled into the building, acting as though he owned the place. He practically did - he could name more than one influential person he had wrapped around his pinky. If he had been at all interested in politics, it would have interesting repercussions, to say the least. The kind receptionist winked at him, and he gave her a small wave as he strode towards the elevator, trying to ignore the curious (and blatantly lewd) stares he was attracting.
> 
> Ah, well, it was those lewd stares which had helped him gain easy access to a ton of so-called "restricted" Federation documents.
> 
> When one pondered enough on the subject (total inebriation helped some), Duo was just as much a political activist as the White Fang leader Milliardo -- he just had better tools in getting what was needed. He exposed the ultimate weakness in most human beings, whether or not they chose to admit it. Good looks though Milliardo sure wasn't shabby in that area>, easy sex Milliardo probably needed some work in that area, Duo thought with a chuckle>, anything that felt good. It was sad, in a way, but there was life for you.
> 
> The elevator dinged at him, door sliding open, and he slipped in. There was already another passenger in there, a short, fat man who seemed to perspire abundantly. Duo sighed inwardly - the last thing he wanted was another passenger.
> 
> "Hey-a, how are ya, kid?" the man asked hopefully.
> 
> Great, a talkative passenger at that, and Duo's built-in talking reflexes would not allow him to shut up. "Fine, thanks."
> 
> He gave the guy next to him a sideways glance as the doors shut and the elevator began crawling upwards. Short, pale, sweaty and twitchy; Duo could tell without looking at the uniform that he was the Federation type. Noticing Duo's glance, the man grinned broadly and pushed his chest out, the sole medal upon it catching the light and gleaming cheaply, somewhat akin to a toothpaste commercial smile.
> 
> Duo looked away, focusing with outward blandness on the little meter set over the elevator door. Inwardly he wriggled with impatience. _12... 15... aaaaany day now._
> 
> Professor G had called him after their initial meeting with another piece of information - the assassination was to take place on the 39th floor balcony, and after that, he was to go to Nih Road and Sixth St. and wait. Just... wait there. Of course, Duo wanted to know why, and when pressed for answers, the Professor reluctantly revealed that a high-ranking Federation officer had found out about the plans.
> 
> And Professor G, the crafty old lunatic, had asked the man if he'd enjoy an hour with Duo - _ahem_ - the Demon. Magic words! The man had backed down immediately, as the Professor had anticipated, and in return had sworn to keep his mouth shut on pain of death by Demon. The specific locations were for the convenience of the Federation officer.
> 
> Duo had asked skeptically, 'Won't that make it easy for anyone _else_ to trace me, if I'm zigzaggin' all over to such very specific locales? Why the hell'd that dude pick _Nih__Road_ anyway? 'S almost as bad as Riverdrive. Full of those Federation bas -'
> 
> The Professor had interrupted impatiently, 'It's better than having the Federation find out about this. Treize doesn't think OZ ready to reveal its independence yet, and OZ _is_ the force behind this assassination, after all.'
> 
> Sometimes Duo could really, really hate himself.
> 
> Hey, wait, why hate himself? He revised the statement: sometimes he could really, really hate politics.
> 
> "Come on, floor 39," he grumbled at the floor meter. _26... 30..._ "Man, I hate skyscrapers," he muttered.
> 
> The man next to him smiled in what he clearly believed to be a winning fashion. "So, kid, what's your name?"
> 
> Duo resisted the urge to say nonchalantly 'Oh, they call me the Demon,' just to see what the man's reaction would be, and instead brought his acting skills into play. "Er, call me David."
> 
> "Nice to meet you... David," the man said, with just enough hesitation before the 'David' to imply that he doubted the truth of that name. His colorless eyes gleamed with mirth as he held out a sweaty hand and Duo absently shook it.
> 
> _37... 38... this elevator is really slow!_
> 
> "I am ~*Commander*~ Panovic," the man all but trilled, "and _you_ may call me Jonathan."
> 
> "Yeah," _sure thing Commander **Asswipe**_, "uh, nice to meet you, Jonathan." He began to fidget. The man was undressing Duo with his eyes -- Duo could _tell_ -- and it was irritating, discomfiting, and made him nervous. Creepy Commander. No wonder he was on the Federation's side.
> 
> DING!
> 
> "This is my floor," Duo said, flashing a complimentary Maxwell grin at the man. "See you 'round." He plunged into the labyrinthine, disinfected depths of the 39th floor.
> 
> Commander Panovic eyed the leather-clad boy as he slipped through the elevator door and disappeared into the winding hallways. That slim, violet-eyed creature with the braid - the kid whose sinuous fame had reached into _every_ underground society in L2. The Commander smiled suddenly and a muscle began to twitch in the squat man's cheek. The Demon had kept its promise.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> Dorlian was dead.
> 
> _That man's eyes..._
> 
> Duo was stumbling through the streets in a dark cloud. He was falling over his own feet, using his hands against the rough brick wall to help push him forward, pushing people the hell out of his way as he made a path through the streets, lurching like a drunkard though he was perfectly sober. More than one sideways stare and angry mutter was directed his way, but Duo was too busy struggling to breathe that he couldn't find time to care.
> 
> _He wasn't angry..._
> 
> What had he done? What had he been doing? How... how could he have killed such a man... how could he have... killed...
> 
> _Just accepting..._
> 
> _...Forgiving me for what I was about to do._
> 
> The hour with Commander Panovic - for Murphy's Law dictated, of course, that such a man would be the Federation officer who found out about the whole mess - had been pure hell, but Duo had anticipated nothing less, so that didn't really matter much. The man's fumbling grasps at his braid hadn't helped matters any, and it had been supremely annoying to have to keep jerking his hair away from those chubby, groping hands.
> 
> Especially when all he wanted to do was sit in a corner and rock back and forth, whimpering.
> 
> _Mr. Dorlian is dead. I have assassinated the Vice Foreign Minister. I executed my mission with perfection, but the only goddamn thing that went wrong is that I killed a human being. **Damn** you, OZ! And... and damn me, too._
> 
> Duo had gone to the 39th floor balcony as instructed. He had waited with his pistol at the ready, as told. And when the Vice Foreign Minister emerged from his limo, smiling for the cameras, a dignified man of middle age, Duo raised his gun.
> 
> Then the gentleman had looked up and by a chance glance he had locked eyes with Duo; had seen the gun. And somehow, through some miracle, those warm brown eyes had communicated forgiveness and understanding.
> 
> _He spoke to me, damnit, I know he did. He said... oh, goddamn, he told me that it was his fate... to be killed by me... he couldn't stop fate and neither could I... that I shouldn't beat myself up over it... but... damnit, why did I ever accept that mission?_
> 
> He knew the answer. He needed the money.
> 
> The burning in his eyes and throat was fiercer almost than anything he'd ever experienced, and he forced it back with a savageness rivaling that. Boys didn't cry.
> 
> Murderers didn't, either.
> 
> Before, the only real assassination jobs Duo had held were to kill low-level drug dealers and the like. Professor G handed him the orders, and Duo executed them without the slightest bit of remorse. After all, he remembered all too well the hell that those druggies had given him and his friends as children. Ho ho, now who was laughing? Shinigami had eaten his vegetables and grown up big and strong. The men he'd killed had been nothing more than unadulterated scumbags and indeed, Duo felt he'd done a service to humanity by ridding the gene pool of such garbage.
> 
> The Vice Minister had been no scumbag. Ever-cynical Duo had reasoned with himself that just like every other politician in the colony, the Vice Minister was using the word "peace" in some twisted manner to get himself glory at the expense of colony citizens. But that man's eyes had not been those of scum. Duo felt like throwing up as the thoughts swirled through his mind. He raised a trembling hand to his forehead. Great, he was getting feverish, too...
> 
> _Maybe if I'm lucky I contracted some fatal disease. No, I tried that once. Solo, why didn't you let me die back then?..._
> 
> _It would have been better than letting me live to become this._
> 
> The Vice Minister had truly been working for peace. In the few seconds when time froze as Dorlian met his killer, that man's warm, _compassionate_ eyes had told Duo so.
> 
> The irony in the whole damned mess?
> 
> More than anyone else he knew, Duo wanted peace. He wanted so badly for L2's sufferings to finally be relieved, for it to have the chance it deserved, something only achievable through _true_ peace and not the sort of peace the Federation was running around trumpeting about.
> 
> Duo had just ruined what was possibly the only chance for such a peace. And such a simple act had done it, too - the tightening of one finger on one trigger, the blast of one bullet from one gun, the snuffing out of one man's life. It seemed so simple, stated like that, but with the pull of the trigger, every single dream of peace he had ever cherished had died along with the Vice-Minister. He wondered briefly if the murderer of Heero Yuy had felt like this, too.
> 
> _Now you're the scum, Duo. Maybe you can go find that man's murderer and have a lovely bonding session over some tea_.
> 
> _How could you?_
> 
> _How **could** you?_
> 
> _How could I?_
> 
> _...Sis... oh God... Father, if you saw me now._
> 
> What had he become? His mind snapped back to the specters from his past, the people he loved and had lost. They had put so much trust in him. Solo, Helen, and Father Maxwell had all trusted him to go on in their stead and do the just thing, the right thing... How many more times would their ghosts stare disappointedly at him? First the whole mess which led to his selling of his body, 'the temple of God.' And now murder.
> 
> _All of you guys trusted me to go on and do the right thing... because you couldn't anymore... I'm so sorry._
> 
> Yeah, as if a sheepish "sorry" to Dorlian's widow and daughter would appease their grief.
> 
> _I **know** what grief is. And now so will his family. I've always been a sinner but this... could I go any lower? It's my fault. My most grevious fault._
> 
> _I cannot be forgiven._
> 
> The burning returned, raising his body's temperature to a firey pitch, and Duo fled through the glittering neon of the colony's night, pushing people to the fucking ground if they got in his way and not caring, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling the refrain in his soul.
> 
> _I killed an innocent man._
> 
> _I killed peace._
> 
> _**I** did it._
> 
> _Mea culpa._
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> Hilde took one look at Duo's room and almost cried at the dormant mess contained within. Duo had many wonderful characteristics, but a wholehearted appreciation for the wonders of cleanliness were _not_ among them. Why, oh why, did she have to take on the task of cleaning their entire apartment on her day off?
> 
> When she thought about it, the answer was actually very simple. Because otherwise, it wouldn't get done. And though Duo might not have minded, Hilde enjoyed being able to see the floor. Trying to walk across their apartment in its current state was like wading through yogurt; your feet kept sinking.
> 
> Well, yogurt could be eaten and messes could be cleaned. Hilde was bound and determined to clean the place up before Duo got home from work. At the very least Duo deserved a tidy room.
> 
> The room was small and rectangular in shape. The wall opposite the door was actually just one huge window, and Duo's unkempt, dorm-style bed was shoved sideways beside it, some manga of arguable virtue peeking out from underneath. He had a bulletin board opposite the bed with small notes such as, "39th floor", "Nih is Hn spelt backwards - kewl", and "more leather required." There were also some odd ones, like "NEAR DONE W/$!! Check entr. exams" and "I'm not a lumberjack, am I still okay?! MOOHAHHA!" Hilde shook her head, partly in amusement and partly in confusion. _Lumberjacks... ?_
> 
> He had also tacked up a few drawings, most of them huge, kindergarden-style happy faces with varying hair styles and degrees of grafitti. One of the drawings had a crude stick person with what appeared to be a frying pan in one hand, chasing another stick figure with a long braid. Duo had drawn arrows next to everything, labeling his braid, the frying pan, and a tree in the background. Hilde shook her head, smiling, as she looked the board over. Duo humor. The only poster Duo had put up on his walls had been one rife with Federation propoganda, and it was crawling with rather colorful words which Hilde stored away in her mind for later use.
> 
> _Hilde, stop stalling,_ she told herself sternly, tearing her eyes from Duo's bulletin board. She clutched the plastic wicker basket in her hand tightly; took a deep breath...
> 
> ...and whirled around from corner to corner of the room like a madwoman, in one hand holding the basket, and in the other chucking in the dirty piles of clothes heaped liberally on the floor. She had to say, some of them were clearly selected by him, and others by his boss.
> 
> Oddly enough, the clothes Duo selected for himself were usually simple black and white; of quality cloth, but other than that, not all that attention-grabbing. Hilde would have expected him to be quite happy in neon green and orange, blinding innocent passerbys on the street. The clothing Duo chose for his job, however, was of rich clubbing fabrics, and either outlandishly colorful or scandalously scanty. The thought of Duo actually _wearing_ one of those nearly brought on a nosebleed. Not to mention dancing in them, or whatever else Duo did during his working hours - Hilde didn't need to know, didn't want to ask.
> 
> She collected three baskets full of clothing which screamed to be laundered, then ran downstairs, shoved the required quarters into the laundry machine, and ran a few loads. While the machine ran, she went back upstairs to sort through Duo's things. His total lack of any form of order was nearly scientific. She wondered if the "professor" Duo talked about sometimes would enjoy analyzing the stratums in there.
> 
> _Geez, but my mind does wander._ She ransacked Duo's drawers next, avoiding one that Duo had once told her was full of "knicknacks." _Don't need to know, don't want to ask. You keep that in mind once Duo starts talking, Hilde._ The drawers in his bureau were full of wrinkled clothes mashed in at random, and she almost wailed in frustration as she realized she should get out the ironing board as well. However, the last drawer was different; it was extraordinarily well-kept, not one bit of dust to be seen, not even when Hilde ran her finger along the side of it. The only thing in it was a small, old wooden box.
> 
> Curious, Hilde knelt down and carefully removed the box, then sat down cross-legged to look at it. Then there was a sharp intake of breath as Hilde's eyes widened.
> 
> There was one cross; made of real gold, one could see that from the start, lovingly polished, the chain untangled.
> 
> There was a picture, creased beyond belief, of a small Duo - the rakish grin was unmistable - sitting on a kind-looking priest's lap with a gentle-faced nun behind them both.
> 
> Another picture, this time from a newspaper, of an even younger Duo, hair unbound and filthy, with a slightly older boy whose eyes glittered with protective warning. The caption read, "Two young thieves from L2's streets." Duo had written in unusually small print beneath the picture, "Solo." There was even a date, but it had been worn away by time.
> 
> There was one complete newspaper article, rendered limp with wear, with the blaring headline, "Maxwell Church burnt to ground, 245 dead in flames."
> 
> And there was one piece of badly singed yellowed paper on which something was written. Hilde could barely make out what it was.
> 
> She read out loud what she could make of it. "Confiteor Deo omni...something, something, peccavi... um, cogi... erbo, something, mea ... maxima cul."
> 
> There was no translation, but Hilde recognized some of the old Catholic latin, and had studied enough to fill in the blanks.
> 
> With trembling hands, Hilde replaced the objects one by one, placing them where they had been found. Then she closed the box - gently, for the wood it was made of was ancient and crumbling - and placed it almost reverently back in the drawer. Her thoughts spun, despite her sick feeling that she had intruded on something Duo did not want her to know, and she couldn't stop them.
> 
> _He was a street child... In this colony, there are far too many people without last names. They pick their own. I'll bet he got his last name from the Maxwell Church. And then Solo... that must have been the boy next to him in that picture. I wonder what happened?_
> 
> She remembered how one day, in her old home colony, the teacher had assigned Current Events. She had been in first grade at the time, a precocious child, and her mother had read out loud to her an article about a plague with no cure that was sweeping L2, and how health officials were going crazy trying to contain the sickness.
> 
> _Duo survived that plague. He was in direct contact with sick people, he told me. Maybe... maybe that boy - Solo - maybe he was a friend of Duo's. Maybe... he was one of the dead. And after a solo comes a duo..._
> 
> _I think I understand now._
> 
> She finished cleaning his room with heavy footsteps, feeling as if she had knocked over a tombstone, then went downstairs to shove the laundry into the drying machines, earning more than one dirty look from other patrons as she hogged nearly all the machines. After that, she trucked the loads back upstairs and doggedly ironed Duo's clothing, even the scanty ones, her mind still lingering on what she had found in that one bare drawer.
> 
> It was disturbing, to say the least. A glimpse into the past of the boy who - jokingly? - called himself Shinigami. And from what she could see... it hadn't been an extraodinarily happy one... except maybe when he had been with the Maxwell Church, with those two kind-looking people. Or perhaps when he was with Solo... she didn't know. She had already intruded too much on a part of Duo's life he obviously did not want to share.
> 
> _I don't think I'll tell him about this, or he'll likely freeze up on me. He may talk a lot, but it's even worse when he just doesn't speak..._
> 
> As she was hanging up the last of Duo's clothing, she heard the door burst open, and hurried into the living room to see who had come in. She was wholly unprepared for the sight of Duo stumbling in, looking like he was having heart failure, pale as Death and nearly falling where he stood. He looked around blankly, then fell to his knees, doubled over silently, covering his mouth.
> 
> Hilde could recognize the warning signs when she saw them - quicker than she thought possible, she fetched a bucket and Duo retched into it, both hands clenched on the rim of the bucket. Several dry heaves later, she withdrew a hankerchief from her pocket to wipe him clean. She placed her hands firmly on his shoulders to support him and alarm ran through her as she felt his tremors.
> 
> _Right now is not the best time to ask what the hell is going on,_ she decided amidst the shrill warning bells in her mind. _But - damn, he was perfectly fine yesterday! He told me he never gets sick!_ She led him over to the couch and he sat there shivering in silence.
> 
> "Duo," she whispered, beginning to be frightened. Duo was never like this. Not only did he never get sick, but whenever he got home, he was cheerful and talkative, blabbing to Hilde about anything under the sun. "Duo, you're scaring me. Oh, damnit Duo, please talk to me!"
> 
> Slowly, as if he were too weary to do it but was attempting it to appease her, he lifted his head and looked up at her. She repressed a shudder at the utterly lost, borderline-hysterical glaze to his eyes. "I'll be fine," he muttered, "can't say that for Dorlian, but I'll live..."
> 
> She stared at the clearly disoriented Duo as his unusually darkened eyes closed again and he curled up into the sofa, shivering. Quickly she fetched him a blanket and tossed it over him, then sat down besides him heavily. He kicked the blanket off. _Dorlian? The Vice-Minister? ... What?_ Finally she found a voice. "Duo, please, just relax. You're obviously sick, and I'm going to help you, okay?"
> 
> "Don't bother," he told her, his low voice empty. She missed the verdance of his usual tone, the rich laughing undertone he usually adopted. "I'm fine."
> 
> Yeah. He had just tossed up his guts, was shivering as if he had stood in Antarctica naked for four hours, looked like hell warmed over, was outfitted in what had to be very uncomfortable clothing and he told Hilde he was fine. How utterly Duo-esque. She wasn't falling for it.
> 
> Hilde's face set, and with expert speed she fetched the first clothing she could find, undressed him, then put the new clothes on him (warm flannel pajamas adorned with teddy bears). He was limp and unresisting, a complete rag doll in her hands, where normally he would have balked at the prospect of wearing her notorious teddy jammies. She cocooned him firmly in the blanket he had kicked off and checked his pulse again. Slowing down. She felt his forehead; slightly feverish, nothing massive. What could have caused such a massive bodily reaction so suddenly?
> 
> _Don't need to know, don't want to ask. All of a sudden I think I want that question unanswered_.
> 
> He glowered at her and struggled to escape the cocoon Hilde had wrapped him in. "Go away, Hilde, you don't have to stick around, geez," he whined. Lucidity was returning to his eyes; relief flooded her. For a moment she thought he had snapped.
> 
> "Duo, shut up," she snapped, then winced. _A little harsh?_ "Sorry. But damn, do you know how worried you had me for a while back there? What the hell happened?"
> 
> He didn't answer at once, and for a minute she thought he wasn't going to answer, until finally with a hint of wearinesss he said, "I've survived so much worse, Hilde. I survive. Don't worry."
> 
> "My ass," she snorted. "'Don't worry,' you tell me? I'm staying _right here_ until you feel better."
> 
> "If you want to numb your rear, don't hold me responsible."
> 
> This time, Hilde forebore comment. Instead she sat down beside him and turned on the TV to News 4. She didn't see him wince.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> "And in today's news...crackle crackle>"
> 
> Trowa's television was really not cooperating today. He sighed and stared at the TV, willing it to function.
> 
> The TV stared blandly back.
> 
> Realizing that not even his stare could compete with that of a TV's static screen, Trowa twiddled more or less patiently with the antennae until the sound returned.
> 
> "...ister Dorlian has been assassinated! We don't know yet who has done this, or even why it has been done. Our best detectives are currently on the job. Here's the scene."
> 
> Trowa winced as the camera zoomed in on a shot of the Vice Minister's body - it was one thing to destroy a mobile suit, but another thing entirely to kill a human, face to face. He never had gotten used to that. Crimson had blossomed on the man's standard gray suit and splattered around him, with only a small neat circle of ripped cloth to tell the story of his death. Police swarmed around the area, busily waving people back to give the illusion that everything was under control.
> 
> _They couldn't even spare us the sight of such a man in such a state,_ Trowa noted disapprovingly, idly running a slim finger along the edge of his nightstand and wiping his finger free of dust on his jeans. _They think we don't see enough bloodshed every day? Did they forget that we live on L2, the center of all this political turmoil? Not to mention the poorest colony in space?_
> 
> "...leaving a daughter named Relena and a widowed wife behind. We believe that an incendiary rebel group named White Fang - many of you are familiar with the group's violent, often lethal methods - is behind this incident and assure you that we will take all steps necessary to eliminate their threat. We sincerely mourn the loss of a man as great as the Vice Minister, and we shall continue to push on for peace in his name." The anchorperson, a clean-shaven man with close-set, watery blue eyes, lowered his head. "Please - a moment of silence."
> 
> Satisfied that the antennae, if nothing else in this crazy world, was working right, Trowa sat back down on the bed, only to have the TV screen immediately begin to flicker. _O Irony. How like this world that is._ With resigned patience, he got back up to hold the antennae in place, forcing himself into an awkward sort of crouch over the TV so that he could still see the screen.
> 
> "...view with his daughter, Relena."
> 
> "Poor girl," Trowa murmured as he saw the carefully guarded look on the Dorlian girl's face appear on screen. He was all too familiar with that look, and with the pain that could be hidden behind such a mask. She'd probably be glomped by over fifty reporters by the time the day was out, and many more would follow, especially for something so earth-shattering as this. He didn't know her all that well; they were in separate social spheres at school. But still, he pitied her.
> 
> Compassion and tact - where had they gone? Archaic words, old-fashioned ideals, they were character traits long-forgotten in today's world. Even many of the poor people were selfish and stingy hoarders of whatever they had, and rabid vultures of whatever they didn't. Trowa had actually once seen an ancient hag swoop down on a small child and get into a vicious all-out brawl over a rotting orange (the orange ended up getting trampled). Compassionate people were hard to find and Trowa was truly lucky to have two of them now by his side... His green eyes warmed like the embers of a fire, before he returned his attention to the TV screen.
> 
> "How do you feel about the Vice-Minister's death?"
> 
> _That's a stupid question if I've ever heard one, and I've heard a lot of stupid questions._
> 
> "No comment," Relena returned in a quivering wannabe monotone, her innocent blue eyes shining with unshed tears.
> 
> "Do you believe that White Fang is behind this?"
> 
> "No comment."
> 
> "What do you think this implies about White Fang's intentions?"
> 
> She was starting to sound strangled. "NO COMMENT. Please excuse me." The girl pushed her way through a mob of reporters, only to have them follow her like a horde of hellhounds. The footage ended with another grotesque shot of the Vice Minister's body. The anchorperson then went on to some other, probably equally awful story. L2 was rich in them.
> 
> "Oi, Trowa! Your soup is ready!" Catherine yelled, her voice going straight through the badly insulated walls of their apartment. Trowa couldn't even smell it. _Odorless, tasteless, it sounds like a deadly poison... though of course I could never tell Catherine that. We're lucky enough that she can scoop together enough for the soup._
> 
> Trowa nodded out of force of habit to the call, then leaned forward almost lazily to turn the TV off, the image of the dead Vice Minister lingering for a moment before fading away.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> It was another uncomfortably silent dinner at the Mitchell household.
> 
> No. Scratch that. There was an uncomfortable silence at the expensive dinner table where two Mitchells and one Yuy sat.
> 
> Elena smiled, a little nervously, as she poked at the rich food on her plate. Even after the seven years Heero had been with them, she still wasn't quite used to the idea of having a son. A son! Her heart swelled.
> 
> At last... a child she could call her own, a child she could pour all of her maternal instincts onto, the instincts she had denied for so long. It didn't matter that she had no baby pictures, or even that Heero was a psychological mess. He was _her_ child, she had the legal papers with the Federation insignia to prove that, and no one could ever tell her otherwise.
> 
> Heero had been with them for seven whole years - a formidable chunk of his life. Elena could still remember the dust-laden, stifled air of the poor orphanage where she found Heero...
> 
> He had been sitting on a worn old sofa, head resting on his knees, clearly struggling against sleepiness, staring unerringly at the peeling paint on the wall with two jewel blue eyes almost feverishly bright. Occasionally his head would flop down, delicate black eyelashes would lower, and he'd sink into a doze, out of which he infallibly awoke with a start to resume his staredown with the wall. Other children played around him, moving and chattering as if Heero wasn't even there. Heero ignored them with like skill, not even seeming the slightest bit interested in their games.
> 
> The chief caretaker at the orphanage had followed Elena's timid, curious glance with narrowed eyes exhausted from overtaxation. "Tha's Heero Yuy," the woman yawned, "yeah, like that peaceful guy few years back. Talk about irony!" The woman chuckled without mirth and continued. "Queer child. Won't play with the other kids. Don't even talk. Eats what's put in front o' him like an animal an' steals food from the others too but don't put on even a pound. An' he hurts himself, often and badly. Ya look at him close enough and ya'll see the scars. Ya can't even tell if they're from before he came here or after." She shrugged. "Problem child if there ever was. Ain't no one in my staff can deal with him. Scared t' come close to him cause he bites _hard_, and oooh," the hardened woman shivered, "the look in that boy's eyes haunts a soul.
> 
> "He's here under child abuse. The mother's whereabouts are unknown, and the father's a drunk in jail who doesn't give a shit. Truth be told, we've no idea what t' do wit him, so we jes leave him be. Seems he likes it better that way, anyway."
> 
> Elena blinked at the woman who had just raffled forth such an astounding monologue, startled.
> 
> Again the woman shrugged her slightly stooped shoulders. "He keeps gettin' sent back. You've no idea how many times I've 'ad to look through his files. Sad story, really, but hell, this is a sad colony. I feel bad for the kid, I honestly do. 'e's small an' cute, which I reckon's a big part o' why some people take 'im on in the first place. But can't no one help him 'less he lets us. Sumthin' lil Mowgli down there don't do."
> 
> Elena's eyes teared up at the poignancy of it all. That poor, lost darling. Abused and rejected. She remembered looking to the tiny child - he was so small, he looked so lonely, just begging for love she wanted so badly to give - and thinking, _Don't worry, little Heero. Your **real** mother is here, little darling, here at last._
> 
> Gregory, her husband, had been opposed to the adoption at first, protesting that they didn't need another man's bastard sucking up their income. But then Elena weeped for days on end, and in the end Elena always did get what she wanted. Of course her many reasons were all true and heartfelt. She couldn't have children; she wanted a little baby of her own so badly; that child was so adorable; their house was so big and so empty and she felt so alone in it; her mother wanted a grandson; and Heero was just a baby, just a child that deserved every chance he could get.
> 
> Luckily for Elena, Gregory was a mild man who, for all his shortcomings, did do his best to indulge even Elena's most expensive and tedious whims. In his mind, Heero had probably been only that, a whim. But she had truly fallen in love with the child who stared, with such intense concentration, at that wall. Something in little Heero had hit her deep. She had shown Gregory - despite all the problems that came with him, Heero stayed on. He was her heart's child. She'd never give up on him. She'd never let him go.
> 
> And now, Heero had grown so much. Elena's eyes misted over. He worked out as if possessed, the exercise granting muscles to his slim, petite frame. His hair was as wild as he was, tousled and resistant to all forms of taming known to man. Every year on his birthday he'd outfit himself in an atrocious green tanktop and horribly uncomfortable looking black spandex shorts, though he usually wore long-sleeved shirts and jeans. But his eyes remained as intense, as jewel-bright, and as warily guarded as they had been at age six.
> 
> At least Heero talked now... though he was given to curt, sometimes downright rude replies. Either that or no reply would grace the questioner at all.
> 
> As Gregory helped himself to the roast turkey on the table, he inquired amicably, "So Heero, how are your studies going?"
> 
> Heero was eating his food extraordinarily quickly, shoveling it into his mouth and curving his other hand protectively around his plate. Elena sighed softly; it was a habit which Heero stubbornly refused to break. It wasn't even as if he loved the food either. His whole stance screamed, "I'll die protecting this! You can't take it away from me!" Once again Elena found herself wondering about the details of Heero's past. But that was certainly not a topic available for casual dinnertime conversation - ever.
> 
> "Heero," Elena reprimanded gently, her lips curving lovingly even as she chastised him, "Daddy asked you a question."
> 
> For a moment Heero caught her eyes with his own, those searchlight eyes, indecipherable, devoid of emotion, reflective. Then he let them drop back down to his plate. "Gregory is not my father."
> 
> "We're your legal guardians, son. By law that makes your parents," Gregory reminded him.
> 
> "That's not my fault," Heero snorted.
> 
> "Heero, please don't be rude," Elena pleaded.
> 
> Heero looked carefully past her, eyes glittering. "Understand that neither of you are my parents. My true parents are gone now," Heero said in a soft and flat voice, pushing his spanking clean plate away.
> 
> "Those people were wicked and cruel!" Elena declared passionately. "They didn't deserve a child like you. Let _us_ be your parents, Heero. We love you."
> 
> The eyes betrayed nothing, and Heero's impassionate face did not change expression. "Sumimasen." His tone stated with a stone certainty that their conversation was closed. Heero rose and walked out of the dining room.
> 
> Gregory looked over at Elena. "You should've brought him back to the orphanage the day he set the next-door neighbor's cat on fire. You remember. Not a week after he came home with us. I told you that was an omen, honey, and now look at him."
> 
> "Gregory! Never joke like that!" Elena rebuked indignantly. "Heero's _my_ baby! I'd _never_ consider such a thing!" She shook her head firmly to emphasize the point. "Besides," she said in the gentler tone she usually used when talking of Heero, "he talks now. And he's grown so much..."
> 
> Gregory smiled placatingly at her, gray eyes apologetic, and reached over to pat her soft hand quickly. "I'm sorry, my dear... but at least he should stop with the Taiwanese or Chinese or whatever language it is that he talks in sometimes. We speak English in this house."
> 
> "Let him be, Gregory. Language isn't the problem," Elena protested defensively. But inside of her, a little voice mocked, _It might as well be, because either way, you two can't talk to each other._
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *
> 
> Heero lay face-up on his oh-so-soft bed, unmoving, staring at the ceiling. The paint on the ceiling would never peel. The house would always smell clean and fresh, perhaps artificially scented with roses thanks to air freshener. There'd never be a drunkard here, but that didn't stop the ghosts from playing before his eyes. Nothing here ever could.
> 
> This place was so damned _rich_, and it sickened him to have to live here. Federation money might as well have plastered the walls. Gregory was wealthy at the expense of the other L2 citizens. But Heero could still remember the poverty of his household, of his orphanage, catch the peeling flakes of paint in his hands, count the roaches. He still felt trapped in this mansion of a place.
> 
> He hated it.
> 
> He hated this house the same way he hated everything. He hated weepy, dimwitted Elena with all her simpering _pity_. He hated Gregory, with his high-paying job as a Federation military strategist. _Doesn't even go out into the front line and doesn't believe jack of what the Federation's spouting anyway._ He hated his school, full of bland, pampered boys and soft Relena wannabes. Surge after surge of bitterness flowed through him as he ticked off the things he hated. But above everything on that list, he hated himself.
> 
> Against his will but equally as inevitably, his thoughts returned to analyze the details of his childhood.
> 
> If he had been better. If he had only been somehow more good. Then maybe Gabriel would've turned out different, would've been a real father. Maybe Kaasan wouldn't have left without him... he _knew_ she wasn't dead, but... she had left him... She had left him alone, with only her memory to go on with.
> 
> As always, he could clearly remember her wide, delicate brown eyes, always looking surprised, and her dark chestnut hair... he could almost feel again its softness, from the times she'd let him pet it. His heart ached painfully. Sometimes he wanted to be two again, so that he could hold out his arms. She'd pick him up then, and he would hug her neck and feel safe...
> 
> Another bitter wave of hate rose. Yeah, she was love in fair weather, wasn't she. She didn't - she couldn't - _really_ love him. If she had, she would've stayed with Heero all those lonely, terror-filled years in hell, not left Heero alone to try to struggle through it.
> 
> She was always weeping or whimpering, his mother - it was always Heero that had to be strong for her and not cry. She was always cringing and apologizing to Gabriel, when Heero would just stare at him and hold her hand tightly, trying to pass calm strength along to her. And after Gabriel'd beat her, she would just hold Heero in her arms and cry as if she was three and Heero was nineteen. Small wonder she left. And she was selfish enough to leave her son behind, to leave him. Surely she had guessed how he would die inside.
> 
> But he showed her. He didn't need a family. Just himself. _He_ had been the one who survived Gabriel, no guardian angels required, against all odds and on his own. He hadn't needed anyone then, he hadn't needed anyone at age seven when he had been chucked into an orphanage, he sure as hell didn't need anyone now.
> 
> Didn't need Elena with all her talk about _love_ and _kindness_. Didn't need Gregory, rolling in the Federation's dough. Didn't need that damned Dr J and his _stupid_ monologues. Didn't need that soft and irritating Dorlian girl, or any of her Xeroxes at school. He didn't need any of them! He was a survivor. He _always_ survived despite even his deliberate tries to the contrary.
> 
> The hatred in him... like a sea caught perpetually in a raging storm. It surged always without reason, without discrimination. It hated everything and everyone with the uttermost in intensity, didn't matter who they were. It always came back, and Heero was left to try to swim through the mind-numbing, spirit-breaking storms which battered him.
> 
> Then there was always the nagging doubt that maybe... maybe she wasn't selfish. Maybe Heero had just behaved badly and that was why. Maybe she would've taken him, but he was too much of a bother. Perhaps he was mistaken to feel that she had loved him. Probably he was just stupid, to remember and hold so dear those first four years of his life when he still had a mother. Now he didn't even know where she was.
> 
> He was so trapped. Not just in this house. But in a web spun with silken strands of hate and bitterness, a web spun by his own hands and filled with the questions and the memories. He could never forget.
> 
> And he could never reach a conclusion and move on. Had he always been this brooding? There were always the questions and the possibilities, but no answers ever came. It was wrong, somehow. Two plus two always equaled four (math was one of the few things Heero enjoyed), but when Heero asked himself, 'Why did Gabriel hurt Kasaan and me so badly?', no answers came.
> 
> Why, when he called for his mother in the throes of nightmares, did Elena come instead?
> 
> Where had his real mother gone?
> 
> God, no... he still loved her, even after eleven years without her.
> 
> No.
> 
> Not that word again.
> 
> Not love.
> 
> His fist clenched and he slammed it into his bed as if with it he could shatter the memory he knew was coming.
> 
> * * *
> 
> *flashback*   

> 
> * * *
> 
> Gabriel's friends... they all like little boys, just like he does. They like to touch, and prod, and put finger here, and insert cock _there_. And so if I suck for them, Gabriel gets his beer and crack cheap. So I suck for them, and I hear them cry out, and I think I'm doing something wrong, so I stop. I don't wanna be hit. But they hit me with a beer bottle or with their hands anyway and tell me to keep sucking, and soon when I hear them cry out like that I know that they like the suck. They tell me, "Pretty boy, good boy, little angel, I love you." And Gabriel says "I love you" too and that's when I get hit. And then Gabriel's friends come over. They touch, and I suck, and Gabriel and his friends get what they want, cheap.
> 
> * * *
> 
> *end flashback*   

> 
> * * *
> 
> Damn love to all reaches of hell. He would never love. He was incapable of loving anyone, any more. It made him feel so empty. So hopeless.
> 
> It just tore him up. He hated the love he held, and he hated the feeling of being torn between wanting to hate and needing to love. It was a weakness which had developed since his days alone in the house with Gabriel. Always, people he became weak for would leave him alone to find strength where he could, on his own. And in the end, all he did, really, was suck.
> 
> He rolled over on his soft, soft bed, and buried his face in his fresh-smelling pillow, before getting up, finding the razor blade he had hidden in his desk drawer, and going to work.
> 
> _This is for all your hate. I hate you, Heero Yuy._
> 
> By the time that night was over and Heero finally fell asleep, there were five bloody streaks carefully crafted on both of his arms. He would wear his long-sleeved turtleneck in the morning.
> 
> * * *
> 
> * * *

[chang_meiran@mailcity.com][1]

   [1]: mailto:chang_meiran@mailcity.com



	4. Shinigami's Right

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
A DARKER SHADE THAN BLACK  
  
PART FOUR : SHINIGAMI'S RIGHT  
  
by Meiran Chang  
  
/.../ denotes thoughts  
  
[1] A traditional penitential prayer uttered during Confession.  
  
[2] "... my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault. I confess to almighty God..."  
  
[3] "D'oh!"  
  
  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
Trowa walked with his usual lazy grace down the busy school corridor, the jibber-jabber of his fellow students ringing unpleasantly in his ears and only adding to his barely-disguised nervousness. His dark green eyes glanced around the locker-lined hall as he struggled to locate his own particular beast. A pure golden head of hair was what finally allowed him to zero in, and he thanked whatever deities existed that Quatre's locker rested right beside his own. That was where they had first met, actually, and where they had stolen a moment to confess a feeling of connection.  
  
And now here he was, six months later to the day. He wondered briefly if Quatre even remembered, then with some shame at the thought answered himself, of course. Quatre's memory was frighteningly capable, and surely Quatre would never forget something as important as their six-month anniversary. Still, there was that annoying little voice inside him that nagged, "You're making *way* too big a deal out of this." Trowa tried to ignore it, but maybe the little voice was speaking the truth.  
  
After all, their upcoming anniversary had been all Trowa was able to think about for the past few days. The thoughts would fade briefly, but they always came back - along with the cruel little voice that asked Trowa if Quatre even thought their relationship that important. For Trowa, their relationship was just about everything - he rarely went a day without looking at some beautiful little thing and wishing he had enough to purchase it, to give it to Quatre and see his face light up with sweet surprise. But Quatre was the Winner heir... surely he had more important things to attend to than his boyfriend, a boy once known only as Nanashi.  
  
But a curt shake of his head whipped back the memories which approached whenever he thought along those lines, and receiving a curious glance from a fellow sophomore, he nodded once in greeting, then politely excused himself and shoved a few people out of the way. His school was teeming with students, being one of the few independent magnet schools remaining, and it was a job trying to force his way through the stream. Sometimes one had to take desperate measures. He rammed a startled freshman in the abdomen out of necessity to avoid being trampled and pushed a way through.  
  
He yawned as he went, his sleep having been sacrificed in order to get a little something for Quatre. He had set his body's internal alarm roughly an hour earlier than usual, dressed himself quickly, the 'sky' outside still gray, and then ransacked his room for the five-dollar bill he *knew* he had stashed somewhere. He apprehended the weary bill in the pocket of some old jeans and jammed it haphazardly into his pocket, then left the apartment, careful to leave a short note for Catherine.  
  
They both knew a great deal of the store owners in the ghetto where they lived. Trowa had been particularly friendly towards old Mr. Higgins, a decent (if simple) owner of a small candy shop. Mr. Higgins' combination of gullibility and good-naturedness actually made him a rather agreeable fellow to be around, and he knew when to keep his mouth shut, something Trowa appreciated to no end. When Trowa had mentioned off-handedly that he might need to get a gift for a certain someone one of these days, Mr. Higgins had earnestly grasped his hand and promised to be at the store an hour early the whole week. Apparently Mr. Higgins had understood just who a 'certain someone' might be, and the old man was a sucker for romance.  
  
And Mr. Higgins had kept his word, Trowa noted with some surprise. The old man beamed at Trowa and gestured for him to make his selection. Thanking him in few but heartfelt words, Trowa had critically surveyed the collection of candy, having settled his heart on some chocolate. It had to be beneath five dollars, and it had to be good. (The thought of presenting Quatre with some stale and nasty-tasting crap made Trowa shudder - what a gift to give.) Finally he had settled on a small metal heart-shaped container, in which were nestled twelve of the famous Gladbury chocolates. Though it was $6.50, Trowa paid the man five bucks and promised to make up the missing dollar and a half within the week. (He knew it was overpaying, but then again, this *was* L2 and $6.50 was probably the cheapest he'd have to pay for Gladbury chocolate.) Mr. Higgins, though not extraordinarily pleased about this, accepted it on the grounds of Trowa's trustworthiness.  
  
Returning home with his prize with a half-hour to get to school, Trowa gulped down a quick breakfast. Though Catherine was more than a little irate ("Why didn't you *tell* me before and I would have gone with you, it's very dangerous out there!" "Catherine, it's always dangerous out there."), Trowa managed to shake her off and then had high-tailed it for school. He had made it, of course - there was an advantage to having such long limbs after all.  
  
Having aggressively forced his way through the mass and spotting Quatre nearby, Trowa called out softly, "Morning, Quatre."  
  
Trowa could see Quatre start in surprise and whip around arubtly, glancing around for who had called his name. There were shadows beneath his eyes and misery within them, sparking worry and a sympathetic echo of sadness in Trowa's heart. Then Quatre saw him, and the tension vanished from his gentle face, changing into an expression of mixed relief and happiness. "Trowa! Good morning," he greeted with a warm smile.  
  
Trowa smiled back in acknowledgement before kneeling down and commencing his daily wrestling act with his mutinous locker.  
  
"Um... our first class is English," Quatre reminded him as Trowa drew out his math textbook. Slightly perturbed by his nervous slip, Trowa shrugged and put the math text into his bookbag anyway – he did have math that day. He hoped. "We're about to finish up on our poetry unit, and then we're starting Frankenstein, so you probably want those books..."  
  
Trowa nodded and slipped the aforementioned texts into his bookbag. The poetry unit had been a sweet sort of hell - they had been doing a terrible lot of romance poems, and Quatre often ended up trying to suppress a laughing fit in class when they were attempting to dissect particularly cheesy lines. (*Plenty* of opportunity for, ah, "significant glances" between the two.) Not to mention that the teacher seemed quite fond of calling on their classmate Heero Yuy - Trowa knew him vaguely - and Heero was often bitingly sarcastic or simply silent, in either case usually sending the entire class into snorts of laughter.  
  
But corny old romantic poetry was the last thing on Trowa's mind. He was filled with nerves, hearing Quatre's sweet soft voice but having trouble listening. Was it possible that Quatre had actually forgotten about their anniversary...? A forlorn feeling touched the core of his being, and slowly began to unfurl.  
  
"... and by the way, Trowa, happy anniversary," Quatre finished, just the slightest hint of a tease in his voice to reveal that he had guessed at Trowa's thoughts. He smiled fondly and touched Trowa's shoulder before letting his hand drop. "Did you actually think I could forget something so important?"  
  
Scanning his painstakingly neat locker once more to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, Trowa straightened up, rudely jostled by a passing jock but not thinking much of it. "No," Trowa defended automatically, but surrendered when he saw Quatre's knowing smile.  
  
He should never have doubted for a moment. He regarded Quatre with warmth and love evident in his every line. Of course Quatre hadn't forgotten. Quatre was selfless to a fault. He rarely gave a thought to himself. "I got you something," Trowa admitted, the shyness in his voice faint but detectable.  
  
Quatre's eyes brightened with surprise and delight. Whatever misery Trowa had noticed earlier had apparently been overwhelmed. "Did you really?"  
  
The look on Quatre's face was worth overpaying for the chocolate. "Yeah, just a moment, let me see if there's time enough to give it to you now..." Trowa rummaged through his messenger bag for a moment before feeling the cool heart-shaped container brush his fingers.  
  
Then the warning bell rang, sending convulsive hysterics through the students as they scurried madly to reach their classes or face the wrath of their instructors.  
  
Trowa sighed unbelievingly. "Damn," he muttered, "and after I finally found it, too."  
  
The massive flood of students in the hallway had abruptly died down to a wanton trickle of latecomers. "We'll be late for class if I give it to you now," Trowa conceded reluctantly, letting the container drop from his hand and slip with a soft thump to the bottom of his bag. He reached out and gently brushed the backs of two slim fingers over Quatre's smooth cheek. "I'll give you it during our B period free, hmm?"  
  
Before Trowa could react, Quatre had pulled him into an unexpectedly fierce hug, burying his face in Trowa's chest. A bit startled but pleasantly surprised, Trowa obliged, wrapping his arms around Quatre.  
  
He could vaguely hear Quatre's muffled voice as the boy tried to catch his breath. "Thank you, Trowa, even though you didn't have to. I love you so, so much." Quatre pressed closer, and Trowa hugged him back and gently stroked the smaller boy's soft hair, hoping to provide the comfort it seemed he wanted. Trowa didn't exactly know what special thing he had done to bring this on, but it was certainly enjoyable. "So much, Trowa. You're always there for me and you always know what to do and say to make things bearable. You always know how to save me." Quatre pulled back a modicum and tilted his face up to see Trowa better, clear blue eyes impressing Trowa with the strength and depth of his boyfriend's feelings. "I love you. I really do."  
  
Not knowing what to say to such a fervent and unexpected declaration, Trowa opted instead to remain silent. He kept Quatre in the embrace for one more moment, loathe to leave Quatre wanting comfort, but reluctantly dropped his arms.  
  
"Trowa, something horrible happened at home last night that I really want to talk to you about..."  
  
Trowa glanced uneasily at the innocent-seeming bell. "I think we'll have to wait till B period, Quatre, we're --"  
  
BRING!! BRING BRING BRING!! BRING BRING!!  
  
"Late," he finished ruefully, as the late bell sounded its last warning shrieks. (BRING!!!! BRING!! BRING! Bring! Bring. Bring...)  
  
Quatre managed somehow to waveringly smile, eyes shining with tears of joy or grief, Trowa couldn't tell. Then Quatre chuckled and sniffled, wiping at his eyes.  
  
Shrugging a bit at Quatre's amusement, Trowa tugged pointedly at Quatre's hand -- and the two walked down the now empty corridor to class.  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
Quatre's mind was buzzing with joy, and he felt enveloped in the warm protective comfort that Trowa always gave him. Though not even Trowa could take the bitter edge off of the last night's events, Trowa certainly helped, and Quatre was already wishing B period would hurry its little rear up.  
  
He knew that his response to Trowa's confession of a gift waiting for him was a little strong, but somehow just knowing that Trowa cared enough to search out something for him – the feeling of being loved not out of a sense of duty or because he was the Winner heir, but because he was Quatre – had overwhelmed him in grand rush of gratitude. He scratched the back of his neck, a small and slightly embarrassed smile touching his lips. Oh well. He was sure Trowa hadn't minded.  
  
He just hadn't been able to help it. Last night had been pure misery, insomnia and guilt. His father had been in one of his worst moods for no reason Quatre could discern, ranting and raving at his son for *hours*.  
  
Quatre had made the mistake of trying to discuss again with his father the possibility of hiring mercenaries, if only as a defense unit against OZ or Federation assassins. He even offered the Maguanacs' help - he knew the Maguanacs would be perfectly pleased to help the Winners any way they could.  
  
His father had adamantly refused, and Quatre had seen his hopes disappear before his eyes as he listened to his father give a veritable sermon on how "We Are Pacifists." Quatre had heard it all a thousand times before, but of course that didn't deter his father at all. When Quatre stated, trying to remain calm, that defensive units didn't fight unless attacked, it only sparked another uncharacteristic verbal assault. Even more than it annoyed Quatre, it worried him.  
  
For a few uncomfortable minutes the conversation had even turned to Trowa, the elder Winner irately wanting to know if Quatre's period of sexual experimentation had passed. Quatre had told him that they were both virgins and planning to stay that way, but his explanations were in vain, and in the end he had deliberately riled his father up to seek a change in topic.  
  
Remembering the useless frustration of that night, coupled with the unnatural feeling that his father would never normally act this way, brought back to Quatre's eyes the darkness Trowa had noted earlier. His father had a death wish. The only action Mr. Winner was taking to 'protect' himself was to gather supplies in case of blockade. It made sense if one didn't think about it, but then one realized that it was a preventive measure against the least likely thing to occur. It was much more likely that either OZ, whatever it was, or the Federation would somehow either force Mr. Winner over to their side, or just get rid of him the easy way. Quatre ducked his head a bit and blinked to clear his eyes of that sudden sting.  
  
Assassination - such a dirty word, such a foul concept. He couldn't envision the type of person who would choose such a path to follow and didn't even want to think about *why* an assassin would choose that 'career' in the first place.  
  
Assassination - like had happened to Mr. Dorlian. Quatre had not been fooled in the slightest by all of the newscasters. There was no possible way that White Fang could have been behind Mr. Dorlian's death - Milliardo Peacecraft had openly and eloquently supported Mr. Dorlian, and the Vice- Minister had vouched for White Fang more than once. OZ and the Federation, on the other hand, had kept strangely quiet, inviting Mr. Dorlian to 'peace talks' as a common courtesy rather than actually wanting him there.  
  
Assassination - the back door to a new era.…  
  
Secretly, Quatre *wanted* a war to break out already, a war between OZ and the Federation or between White Fang and the Federation. Whichever faction wanted to battle could, as long as they released the Federation's chokehold and brought peace. That was all the tired civilians wanted. Quatre would have been right out there fighting with White Fang if only he could, but his father had taken care never to expose him to implements of war, and Rashid outright refused to teach him anything ("For your own good, Quatre- sama." "*droop* Rashi~d...").  
  
It was terrifying to continue living under an illusionary peace while you could see all around you the warning signs of danger and bloodshed. *Something* was going to give, sooner or later, and people were going to die. That was what his father didn't understand. Pacifism did not have a place right now. People who preached it now were suicidal. There would be time enough for pacifism after the main threats were eradicated. Not before. Perhaps it was a ruthless way of looking at the situation, but it was the only sensible viewpoint Quatre could come up with.  
  
And how many times had Quatre tried to tell that to Mr. Winner, each time failing pathetically to accomplish a single thing?  
  
Somewhere around three or four o' clock in the morning, Iria had stepped in to intervene and rescue Quatre from Mr. Winner's blustering haze. At that point Quatre almost wanted to heave his own beloved pacifism out the window as a crack theory, wondering bitterly if shock would bring his father back to his senses. Iria had gently but firmly steered Quatre out of the room. Quatre had been sullen, upset, and angry, all of those emotions he had not shown since he met the Maguanacs. But Iria soon took care of that, by solemnly telling Quatre what was wrong with their father.  
  
Mr. Winner had cancer. His cancer was at an advanced stage, discovered late, and out of control. His body was crumbling by the minute. Mr. Winner would die within the month and save OZ and the Federation the trouble: *that* was why he was gathering all of the Winner's holdings together on L2. Not to save himself, not for a blockade, but to give his only son a start.  
  
Right then, when Iria had finished her explanation and was looking worriedly at Quatre to see how he had taken the news, a surge of longing had lunged through Quatre. At the moment of crisis, Quatre's being had cried for Trowa's comforting embraces and feather-light touches, for his realistic viewpoint and eternal stability.…  
  
All Quatre had done at that point, however, was nod in understanding and eclipse his feelings with a mask of resigned and calm acceptance. Iria had enveloped him in a quick hug and told him that he was being very brave. And after that he had fled to his room and tried to stifle his dry sobs to the best of his ability, the entire night lost to the paralyzing terror of what- may-come.  
  
/Father, I don't deserve to be your son.../  
  
Quatre felt a cool hand slip unobtrusively into his own, jerking him back to the present, and offered Trowa a grateful smile even as he noticed they had arrived at their destination. Trowa always knew when Quatre was feeling badly. Always. And just as often, a word, a touch, a kiss, would leave Quatre capable of outer calm once more.  
  
"Let's go inside," Trowa said quietly, disengaging his hand from Quatre's with silent firmness and opening the door.  
  
Then they walked into the classroom together, much to the amusement of the class, and much to the perturbation of Instructor H. Quatre hurriedly concocted a viable alibi and proceeded to explain their tardiness in the sweetest, most innocent tones possible.  
  
Needless to say, their lateness was excused.  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
1.1.1.1  
  
The water was so *cold*, yet somehow, he couldn't make himself step out. Every time he told himself, 'Okay, Duo, this is enough, get out already,' he only ended up making the water a little bit colder. Duo knew damn well that staying in the shower beneath water this cold was incredibly stupid and unnecessarily melodramatic, but he couldn't help it. Doing this - punishing himself like this - it wasn't a plea for attention! It was a cry to the deaf God whose existence he had denied - a cry for help and absolution. His silent Confiteor. [1]  
  
He had done badly, he *knew*. The knowledge sat inside him and twisted like a sadist's corkscrew blade, tearing him up from inside out. He had sinned, done wrong where a right was called for, and because of that, a man better than him was dead.  
  
Dead. He was jaded, or so he'd thought. He was wrong, obviously, if Dorlian's death made him tremble more than this damn shower. He exhaled slowly; nice way to find he was mistaken.  
  
It came down to audacity in the end, really. The real truth of what Duo'd dared to do, seeping in; a delayed reaction, sure, but there it was. His sheer nerve in taking away the reaper's task, in striking down a life devoted to the greater good, made him flinch. Since when had life or death been his to choose between? That was Shinigami's right. He was not worthy.  
  
And then the added torture of knowing for certain that the only hope for a peaceful L2 had lain, golden, quiescent, gentle... quiet in Dorlian's palms. And Dorlian was six feet under, pushing up daisies; Dorlian, the great man who could have followed in Heero Yuy's pioneering steps.  
  
Dorlian, with a young daughter and a loving wife - a weeping widow. Dorlian, who had forgiven him before Duo realized the enormity of what he'd done. Oh, Duo would never have shown that mercy. He would have spent his dying breaths cursing his killer and his killer's childen's children to Hell for all of their damned eternity.  
  
But the day hadn't played out like that. It hadn't been him twitching on the street, hadn't been his blood glistening on pavement. No – instead he was the shadow assassin, there boom and gone again, mission accomplished and could he have his money please? Leaving a martyr in his wake and a trail of shattered dreams.  
  
Ironically enough, this was the job that had let him hit it over the top. He had the money to try for a scholarship now, money he had earned himself through various unorthodox methods. The six grand Dorlian's death had landed him was all he'd needed.  
  
He'd spent half his life dying for this chance. Doing what he had to, screwing, sucking, humiliating himself, swallowing his pride, on his knees, all of it on his knees! And now the chance was right in front of him. He could almost reach out and touch it.  
  
Except when he tried, laying a hand on the crisp Federation dollars, blood splattered from his fingers to spiderweb through the rubberbanded bills. He had drawn back his hand with a stricken gasp the first time, staring at his hand as though it were possessed by Satan. Then in a frenzy he had slammed the briefcase shut, shoved it under the bed and fled early for work.  
  
He had seen it happen, that was the disturbing part, he had seen the blood on his hands. It was jack-shit crazy, Duo knew that perfectly well, but that was what he'd seen, and damnit, that made it real.  
  
He set his jaw and stabbed the bar of soap into the wall, over and over, barely restraining himself from banging his stupid head into it. His entire dilemma was just that - stupid! Feeling sorry after the fact did nothing for anyone involved. He *knew* that.  
  
He had to accept this, somehow: Dorlian was dead, and he, Duo Maxwell, was not.  
  
He had to take his chance, damnit, reach out and dig his nails into it. He had not groveled and made excuses and pushed himself till he nearly snapped for eight fucking, lousy years to wig out now. He would stumble on, would push himself up out of the abyss.  
  
So he'd still Dorlian's ghost, the one whose blood dripped from his fingers. He'd offer the damn sacrifice. He'd suffer through the punishment like the stupid animal he was. Cutting himself was out: messy, sloppy, not compatible with his work and so easily seen as faked. Suicide was definitely out: too easy, and besides, he couldn't leave poor Hilde behind.  
  
But Duo hated the cold with a passion, so washing away sin beneath a freezing deluge would be the most fitting penance, the most appropriate eulogy he could offer.  
  
/Wash/  
  
/Be clean/  
  
/Be clean/  
  
/Scrub the dirt away/  
  
/Scrub the filth away/  
  
/Wash away your sin/  
  
/If you can/  
  
He was going insane, no question. Scratch that - he *was* insane, had been for a while now. It was just a subtle kind of insanity, the kind that made people smile a little, like he was some kind of rowdy kid. But soon, oh so soon, he would become a stark staring madman, and there was nothing funny about that. He could not live like this. Not anymore. Not after Dorlian.  
  
Sixteen years old with "sex" all over his job description. What had ever happened to flipping beef patties at the local fast food place? He wanted to flip patties. He wanted to be Fry Cook Maxwell...  
  
Even his thoughts leapt wildly, no logic between this one and the next. He was hurtling down into insanity's chasm and from the looks of it, his brains were gonna be splattered all over chasm floor real, real soon.  
  
Where had he gone wrong? Had it been at age eight, when Raze propositioned him? Or before that? Perhaps it had been that mobile suit he stole. He *knew* he shouldn't have done that one; Solo would have said so too, in his lazy colony-boy drawl. Maybe that was when it had begun, when he first met Solo. But back then he was innocent of his curse. He didn't know that he'd end up killing Solo. Maybe it all started when he arrived, a quick-fingered little heap of long-haired humanity, on this poorest of colonies.  
  
Hell. He knew when it began -- on the day of his misbegotten birth when he came shrieking into the world.  
  
His teeth clattered and he shuddered violently, but he wasn't done thinking. He wouldn't leave this shower to dry off, warm up and sit down until he had finished raking nails over his soul. Looking back at his life, it was so easy to see how its disasters had their root in him. He'd acknowledged a godless life for a long time now, so with no deity to color where the blame should fall, he knew where fault lay.  
  
In himself. In the choices he had made. He didn't have to be here right now, but somewhere along the line, somewhere along the string of mistakes that composed his excuse of a past, he'd done something that led him to right now, sixteen or seventeen years old and shaking like dust in the wind.  
  
Where should his anger turn?  
  
Towards himself, like a starving shark trying to eat its own tail.  
  
Duo wanted - he needed - redemption. Someone to redeem him. Not God - He didn't exist, or if He did, He fucking well didn't deserve to. His main problem, Duo thought, almost dispassionate now, was his lack of trust: he trusted no one in the world enough to accept an absolution from their lips. No one would understand the despair with which he sought forgiveness, anyway. He knew Hilde would try if he asked her to, because she was sweet and liked him, but she had lived all her life a sheltered rich girl and could never comprehend the thin line he walked between insanity and brilliance, between rising and falling. She could never understand the reason for this ice-cold water.  
  
If he only repented, Sis and the Father had said, he would be saved. Here he was, repenting, and he sure as hell wasn't feeling chipper about anything. He had spent all his life repenting, on his knees for eight long years, and all it had got him was this teetery feeling like leaning over a rail. Fear of falling.  
  
"Duo, are you planning to hog the shower all morning?!"  
  
It was Hilde, yelling over the shower's noise. Duo could barely hear her. "I have to get to work!" she screeched. "Hurry *up*!"  
  
"I'm coming right out." Duo forced his tone to be upbeat; Hilde had the weirdest belief in his infallibility. He turned off the water and sagged against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. He wanted to cry.  
  
Making himself cheerful when he was like this made him feel sick, but for appearance's sake he added, "Why the rush, Hilde? I knew ya stank, but I didn't realize it had reached that point yet..."  
  
"Duo, you jerk!" The sound of indignant giggling. "I've gotta be at work by ten, so don't try to distract me!"  
  
Duo slid the shower door open, grabbed his towel, and wrapped it around himself. "If you don't want to be distracted, I'd recommend lookin' away when I saunter past, huh? Help me preserve my boyish modesty and all that?"  
  
"What boyish modesty? Duo, your career is destroying *other* people's modesty!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah," he drawled. "Somebody's gotta do it. Now step away from the door, please, lest you be blinded by my godlike physique."  
  
"Fine, will you GET OUT?"  
  
"Don't kill me!" He took the last moment before kicking the door open to put a teasing smile on his face, though the smile was wasted, as Hilde was prudently covering her eyes. His hair dripping all over the floor and still shivering, he made his careful way to his room.  
  
He heard the shower hiss up again and Hilde yelped, her curses carrying through the walls. "Fuck! This water's COLD!"  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
1.1.1.2  
  
"And there'll be a quiz next Tuesday on sections 6-7 and 6-8 in the textbook," droned old Mrs. Yiritza. "For your homework, study and do the chapter review on page 217."  
  
Quatre sighed in relief as his Trigonometry class was cut short by the clanging bell that marked the end of every period and stuffed his binder and folder haphazardly into his bag, a few crumpled papers leaking out of the edges. Finally, it was B period! Seventy-five minute Trig classes should be outlawed.  
  
He slung his bag over his shoulder and set out of the classroom along with the rest of his chatting classmates, gaze darting back and forth between the river of students in the hallways. Trowa should be coming out of French class right now, and his French classroom was on the same floor as Quatre's Trig class. In fact – there he was. Quatre's heart lifted as he identified his tall boyfriend's head above the crowd, and he indelicately forced his way through.  
  
"Trowa," he said when he arrived at Trowa's side, and smiled. "It's such a relief to see you after Trig. That period was hell."  
  
Trowa nodded. "Tell me about it. My teacher doesn't even speak French."  
  
Quatre made a face. Trowa hooked his arm through Quatre's and they made their way downstairs, to the cafeteria.  
  
The entire school seemed to have its lunch break at midday, and the hallway leading to the lunchroom was crowded with prattling students. Quatre and Trowa talked lightly of nothing in particular as they got their lunch—pizza—and found themselves a seat at a round table in the corner.  
  
"D'ya think it'll be edible today?" Quatre asked Trowa, half in jest and half seriously, as he picked up his slice of pizza. Grease slid off it most unattractively and dampened his paper plate.  
  
"If not, I bought you a gift that should make up for it," Trowa replied, looking warily at his own slice.  
  
"Yeah?" Quatre raised his eyebrows. "I'm excited. What is it?"  
  
"Finish your pizza." Trowa gave him one of his half-smiles, green eyes softening just that much, before following his own advice and digging in cautiously.  
  
They ate mostly in quiet. Trowa wasn't given to talking while eating, for which Quatre was grateful; the lunch required truly creative handling. Quatre occupied himself wondering what gift Trowa had bought him, and hoping it wasn't too expensive—he was aware of his boyfriend's economic status and didn't want Trowa to have to go without food or something for his sake. Trowa was already too thin.  
  
Having gotten only one slice rather than Quatre's impulsive two, Trowa finished first and Quatre tore through his second slice as quickly as he could. By this time, the cafeteria crowd had dissipated, since the midday lunch break was only forty minutes long. Quatre and Trowa had the entire period free, however—one of the few free periods they shared.  
  
"Done?" Trowa asked, one hand at the ready in his messenger bag, as Quatre washed his pizza down with a hearty swig of soda. Quatre nodded.  
  
"All right." Trowa devoted his entire attention to the bag and began searching through it. As he searched, head down, he added, "It's not much, but I think you'll like it."  
  
"I like anything you give me," Quatre told him sincerely. "You don't have to knock yourself out, Trowa."  
  
Trowa shrugged. "I don't, usually. You're an exception—a-ha! Found it." Triumphantly Trowa swept something up from the bag and presented it to Quatre.  
  
It was a small, heart-shaped metal container with the word Gladbury written in a golden script on the top. Quatre's eyes widened and he only barely stopped himself from bouncing in his seat as he took the container. It was Gladbury chocolate, and he *loved* Gladbury chocolate.  
  
"Thank you, Trowa," he breathed happily, opening it to take a peek. Within nestled twelve chocolates, each in their individual paper crib. He took one and nibbled it—it was coconut, his favorite flavor. He finished the chocolate under Trowa's amused eye and offered Trowa one, but Trowa shook his head.  
  
"I have to maintain my slim, girlish figure," Trowa deadpanned, rising. Quatre got up as well, and they began walking out of the lunch room. "I'm on the gymnastics team, remember?"  
  
"How could I forget? When I saw you at your first meet I thought you were going to dislocate your spine." Quatre placed the chocolate in his bookbag to the tune of Trowa's quiet laughter.  
  
"I've always been flexible. It doesn't hurt. There's never a need to worry."  
  
"Doesn't mean I can't, though."  
  
"Suit yourself, I won't stop you. Anyway, Quatre, weren't you going to tell me something?"  
  
"Oh yeah…" At once the events of the previous night rushed back to Quatre, and he sobered, feeling vaguely guilty for putting them outside of his mind. "Let's go outside and sit someplace nice, huh?"  
  
"Grab your coat, the weather systems are being weird again," Trowa said as they passed by the first floor atrium. Quatre snatched his jacket from where he'd tossed it at the beginning of the lunch period and shrugged it on obediently.  
  
The Vera Langel Institute, being a very high-brow educational institutional, had itself a little garden surrounding its six-story building. There were park benches and an actual tree there, a weeping willow imported directly from Earth. The area beneath the tree was free, so the two students made their way over and relaxed against its base. Quatre rested comfortably against Trowa's shoulder within the crook of his arm and played with his fingers, hanging more or less in front of Quatre's face. Trowa chuckled but tolerated this.  
  
"Are you going to tell me, Quatre?" he queried after a short while. Quatre sighed.  
  
"It's about my father." Quatre snuggled in against Trowa's side for the warmth and safety he offered. Trowa's fingers brushed his face gently. "You've heard this before, but he was yelling at me again."  
  
"About what?" Trowa asked.  
  
"Just everything… me, you, pacifism, the usual… I was trying to get him to accept the Maguanacs as bodyguards because I was scared for his life, what with the unrest in the Federation." Quatre let out a long breath. "He refused because he said it wouldn't be right, wouldn't be the pacifist thing to do, and after a while Iria came in to rescue me, and she told me that… that…"  
  
He closed his eyes and turned his face into Trowa's shoulder. He could feel Trowa's arm tighten around him, and his fingers stroked Quatre's hair soothingly, though he said nothing.  
  
"Trowa, my father's going to die." Through sheer willpower he forced back the tears this confrontation with reality brought. "It's cancer, late- stage, out of control. Iria says there's nothing we can do, and now I understand why he was doing all that stuff with having supplies brought here. When he dies, I'm the next in line for the company. I don't know how I'm going to handle it, and I'm so ashamed, for acting like such a selfish brat before him, going on and on about what I thought instead of just listening to him and—"  
  
"You didn't act like that at all," Trowa said softly. "From what I understand you were only trying to have him accept bodyguards, that's all. Don't take blame that isn't rightly yours."  
  
"I don't know what to do," Quatre sighed. "I don't know what I should do."  
  
Trowa said nothing. There was nothing he could say. He stroked Quatre's hair with slow, lulling motions until Quatre nearly fell asleep, though the thoughts looming in his mind were dark and ominous. There wasn't much Trowa could do, but having him as a shelter made Quatre feel a bit better.  
  
After too short a time, activity began around them, with the few students outside in the cold weather retreating back indoors for the start of the next period. Trowa, clearly not wanting to get up, mentioned, "Class begins in five minutes."  
  
"I wish I could just cut and stay here the entire day with you," Quatre muttered, opening his eyes. "How important, really, is feudal Europe?"  
  
"I would cut class just for you," Trowa said honestly. "But I'm on scholarship and I can't afford to lose it. Catherine would beat me with her rolling pin.."  
  
"I know. I'm just being an idiot," Quatre said, resigned, and reluctantly rose.  
  
"You're too intelligent to be an idiot." Trowa got up and stretched.  
  
Quatre shrugged. "Do you have a free now?"  
  
"No, I have Algebra II."  
  
"Can I get a kiss before class?" Quatre asked hopefully.  
  
Trowa smiled. "If it'll make you feel better," he said, and took Quatre in his arms, and kissed him.  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
/... mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Confiteor Deo omnipotenti vobis fratres [2]... oh. Oh, *damn*!/  
  
Duo bolted straight up in bed, then groaned and smacked his forehead in dismay [3]. What *time* was it? He was supposed to meet his librarian, Mrs. Jackowski, at three o'clock. She'd rake him over barbed wire if he was late - with infinite sweetness and a chocolate waiting for him after the ordeal.  
  
The green digits, when he discovered them glowing on the nightstand beside him, read 1:01. Duo chewed thoughtfully at his lip. He'd slept for a little while, but he'd woken up at least two hours ago, so he must have spent his time praying, of all possible useless things. He supposed it was a knee- jerk reaction. He honestly hadn't known it till his appointment jabbed into his mind, snapping him out of his hazy, semi-comatose state.  
  
But it was over. Right? It was over. He'd killed already, he'd mourned, he'd repented and sacrificed and he wasn't into masochism. So he didn't need to torment himself further. So, he wouldn't. Duo sighed, tired despite his two hour semi-nap.  
  
Enough of this. He was sixteen. He had a life to live. And he would live it, too, wring all the hope and happiness out of it that he could. Otherwise Dorlian's death would have been for nothing. And that he wouldn't stand for.  
  
Well - he glanced at the clock again (1:02) - he had two hours before Mrs. Jackowski would be expecting him. Maybe a jolt of caffeine would get him going. He swung his legs out of bed and yawned, letting them dangle, before hopping up to go get dressed, determined to brood no longer over what he had done.  
  
Duo was a quick dresser by necessity. He threw on an oversized black T- shirt and a pair of black leggings, then looked around for his shoes, feeling definite de'ja'vu. He found no footwear, so he kneeled down and started rummaging beneath his cot, hurling crap out from underneath it willy-nilly. He extricated his favorite and sixth-favorite mangas, five dollars, three nickels, broken headphones, a keychain, a few thin wires, a pack of gum, two empty wallets, a dagger, and a cardboard tiara emblazoned with the nearest fast food restaurant's logo before finally drawing out a scuffed white pair of cheap tennis sneakers. Triumphantly he wriggled his feet into them and yanked the laces tight. Then he tossed on the first jacket he found, one folded neatly on his chair. It proved to be blatantly raincoatish, all glossy waterproof material, but he didn't really give a flying camel either way.  
  
Hilde would be back home from work around nine o'clock tonight. Plenty of time to distance himself from encroaching madness and review from algebra to geometry while he was at it.  
  
He left.  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
1.1.1.3  
  
Ladyjane's Café, his personal favorite, was a nice, drowsy little place just off the corner of Sixth and Freedom Boulevard. The ivy crawling up its stone walls gave it a particularly picturesque appearance. There were quaint iron-wrought black tables set up outdoors with classy little umbrellas to protect from the insanely bright artificial sun - L2's weather control administrators should be taken out and shot - and one of the walls was actually a glass window like the one in his room, so one could peep inside at the cozy, armchair-splattered interior.  
  
It was mostly empty today, most people either at work or queuing up outside the Unemployment Agency. Duo nodded at the manager, Ladyjane herself, who was scrawling fiercely on a piece of paper on a table strewed with similar documents. He'd worked here during the mornings for a while before he met Hilde. Ladyjane looked up from beneath bushy black eyebrows and nodded tersely before returning to her work. Duo repressed a wince for Ladyjane's sake; the poor woman knew she was hideous and needed no confirmation of the fact.  
  
Up at the counter, he noted that Basio, the usual cashier around this time of day, was absent; in his place was a new guy. Anything was better than bumbling, nervous Basio, but this new cashier looked particularly promising.  
  
For a start, his looks were a great improvement over Basio's thin, substanceless features. Duo consciously refrained from licking his chops, for the new cashier was quite handsome, with large brown eyes in a heart- shaped face. Long dark red hair fell into the expressive eyes until, fed up, the cashier tied it back with a scarlet hairtie and a soft curse. Caught, Duo couldn't help but watch the cashier's movements, the poise and grace wasted in such a menial position.  
  
Somehow he tore his gaze away long enough to look down at his watch. It was 1:30 – shift change time at Ladyjane's. Damn. That meant the new guy would be on his way out. Ladyjane lifted her head briefly to bark out a clean-up order, to which the cashier made an ironic little bow before acquiescing.  
  
Too bad that sexy cashier was gonna have to work some overtime, because no way was Duo letting this chance escape him. A mark like that was just what he needed. Duo came up to the counter and the cashier called over his shoulder, "Sorry, gotta clean up... be right with ya..." A few moments passed before the cashier put away the towel he was "swabbing" with and turned around.  
  
Duo smiled at him, a little goofily – egads, the Demon losing his famed composure? He hastily wiped the goofy look off his face and replaced it with a more acceptable smile.  
  
The cashier grinned cheerfully at him and leaned against the counter. "Hi, I'm Heart," he said. "D'ya want something? Sorry about making you wait... Ladyjane woulda killed me or something if I didn't clean up..."  
  
"Not really. Just wanted to chat. And hey, no fear." Duo quirked an eyebrow. "I know her too." He gave a mock-woeful look. "She's a nice woman and everything" -- he cast a glance over his shoulder to make sure Ladyjane wasn't paying attention (she wasn't) -- "but if you don't do what she says, you're 'ejected,' no trial!"  
  
The cashier nodded and chuckled. "I have no idea why she doesn't just say you're fired. No, it *has* to be 'ejected.' Here's to hoping she did not just hear me say that."  
  
Duo pretended to lift a wine glass -- Heart caught on and did the same. They clinked the nonexistent glasses in midair. "Cheers," they said simultaneously.  
  
Ladyjane looked up from her paperwork and barked, "Are you quite done, Kinning!"  
  
"Yes ma'am," Heart replied promptly.  
  
"Then disappear," the woman ordered. "It's Skulley's shift now. Come back at six."  
  
"Yes'm." Heart looked hopefully at Duo. "Hey, wanna walk home with me?"  
  
Duo grinned. "Oh, I'm yours."  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
"So where's your place?" Duo asked Heart as they navigated the crowded L2 streets. Heart was quite adept at it, slipping in between people or pushing some aside in order to clear a way.  
  
"I live with my family. 412 Pride Drive. Ever been there?"  
  
"Passed it by." Actually, a lot of Duo's customers were from around there. "That's a pretty rich section of town. You loaded or something?"  
  
Heart snorted. "I wish! If I was loaded, I wouldn't be workin' under Ladyjane. It's my old lady that's rich. My dad was a Fed, he fell in love with my mom, married her, and along came my humble self." A sly smile. "Daddy-o died of poisoning later on, though... they convicted and hanged one of the servants."  
  
Duo raised his eyebrows. "That's interesting..."  
  
"The courts thought so too," Heart said cheerfully. "But anyone can be bought, ne?" Duo flinched, but Heart didn't seem to notice. "Anyway, stranger, I never caught your name. I can't just keep callin' ya 'handsome.'"  
  
"Thanks, flirt." Duo grinned a bit. "I run, I hide, but I don't lie, I'm Duo Maxwell." At Heart's laugh, he added defensively, "Hey, I picked it myself. What's your excuse?"  
  
Heart had the decency to look sheepish. "Sorry, sorry, I shouldn't have laughed, especially not when I'm saddled with a name like -" he made exaggerated quotation gestures with his fingers - "'Heart.'" He sighed. "You wouldn't believe how many schoolyard fights I got into over that name."  
  
"Sure I can," Duo replied easily. Heart's inquisitive look invited elaboration which Duo did *not* give -- his childhood memories weren't happy ones. "So what's the story behind the name?"  
  
"Curious?" Heart laughed. "Yeah, I could see that. Okay, here goes: my mom is a little, well, not normal." He rolled his eyes. "Actually, to be blunt, she's a freaking lunatic. She named her kids all weird. I got a sister named Felicity Joy Cheer -- she's a freshman in high school -- and two little brothers named Justice and Right. Right's been insufferable ever since Mom named him 'right' and he's only five. Juju's at least still a baby and can't talk yet!"  
  
"Heh! Did your mom remarry or what?"  
  
"Nope. She has no idea who the kids' fathers are. But I'm old enough to act like a guardian for them. Or a role model. Or something."  
  
"How old are you?"  
  
"Twenty-two. I'm graduating from the university this year."  
  
"Wow." That was a surprise. Heart looked Duo's age. "I thought you were younger."  
  
"Lots of people do." Heart shrugged. "I have to go through a lot whenever I want a damn drink." He flipped his voice to an obnoxious whine. "'This ID doesn't look valid, sir... I think I need your driver's license, sir... Go home and get your birth certificate, sir...'" He shook his head in disgust and gave a rueful sigh. "I haven't heard that one yet, but I carry a little copy of the certificate in my wallet just in case. I don't feel like bribing some snotnosed bastard twice as much money as his lousy beer is worth."  
  
"Yeah, I know what you mean. The only reason I can get a drink without any trouble is because I know a hell of a lot of people, so no one ever bothers me about my age."  
  
"Yeah? How old are *you*?"  
  
Duo thought. "Sixteen, seventeen, around there. Forgot when my birthday is, I just count another year every Christmas."  
  
"Oh." Heart looked saddened. "War orphan?"  
  
"Right on the mark."  
  
There was a short awkward silence before Heart asked, "So, why don't the bartenders bother you? They sure harass everyone else."  
  
A grin from Duo. "It's a professional secret, my friend."  
  
As the conversation went on, Duo relaxed. Heart was a lively conversationalist who was willing to glance over all sorts of topics. He never stayed very long on any of them and Duo got the impression of a rather flighty person, but he was pleasant company. Heart also made it clear, over the course of their talking, that he was interested in Duo -- for more than just this one-time walk home. The flattering epithets he sprinkled his comments with -- gorgeous, sexy, hot stuff -- conveyed the other guy's interest very well. Duo was very glad not to have to come right out and ask which way he swung. Some people found that offensive for some reason.  
  
"We're almost there," Heart said, glancing up at the name of the intersection they were currently passing. "We're on Peace Road, just a bit more till Pride. Anyway, I was wondering, do you have a job?"  
  
Duo coughed. "Well, yeah..."  
  
"What is it?" he asked curiously.  
  
The braided teenager made a face. "I can tell you what it's not. You guess what it is."  
  
"Twenty Questions? Sounds fun to me." Heart grinned. "Okay, are you a student?"  
  
"Kinda," Duo said, thinking of Mrs. Jackowski's tutoring sessions, "but I wouldn't describe it as my job."  
  
"Okay... are you a teacher?"  
  
"Depends. Whoever's new is usually shuffled over to me because I've got the most experience."  
  
"Hmm. This is tough. Hey," Heart looked suddenly stricken, "you're not a soldier, are you?"  
  
"No way. Under the Feds? I'd rather blow my brains out."  
  
Heart smiled, evidently relieved. "I was scared that in that case, I wouldn't ever see you again!"  
  
"Flatterer," Duo accused playfully. "I'm just one guy. There are other fish in the sea. Granted, most of the cute ones are either taken or het..."  
  
"You'd be wasted in the military," Heart declared fervently. "Unless you were a special operative or something, you'd be so wasted."  
  
"Yeah? How'd you figure that one?"  
  
"Well," Heart said, as if it were obvious, "you're smart." Duo was ready to protest that, but then his companion stopped, so Duo did as well. "Sorry, we're here."  
  
Duo's gaze traveled up neat white steps, a brown oak double door carved with animals and flowers, and two pristine marble stories of proof of wealth.  
  
"You're loaded," said Duo with conviction, staring at the stained glass windows on the second story.  
  
Heart shrugged. "Think what you like." Then, for the first time in the conversation, Heart hesitated. "Hey, Duo..."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Well, I really liked talking to you." The young man paused again. "I was wondering if maybe we could meet somewhere again."  
  
Duo smirked. "You want to date me? Are you really sure about that?"  
  
"I want to know you better," Heart said earnestly, cheeks faintly pink.  
  
Duo nodded, smiling that annoying goofy smile again, but he couldn't help it – he couldn't remember the last time he'd been on a date and not been paid for it. It was so cute. Heart's blush was just too much. "All right then. Let's see – how about tonight, 48th and Independence Road?"  
  
"You sure? I can pick you up at your house and we can cruise around for a bit," Heart offered.  
  
"You drive?" That was a surprise, though now that Duo thought about it, he could remember Heart's reference to his driver's license.  
  
"I'm a senior in college." Heart grinned. "Of course I drive. I'd be laughed out of the university if I didn't. So what time is good for you?"  
  
"Whatever time is good for you," Duo said playfully, tossing the decision back at him.  
  
Heart looked sardonic, in his ever-cheerful way. "I'm not gonna wiggle out of setting the time, am I? Do you know how bad I am at making decisions? It took me four tearing hours of indecision before I could finally pick a color to paint my room."  
  
"So what color did you pick?"  
  
"Heh heh heh. I didn't. Couldn't decide. That's how awful I am at making decisions."  
  
"Then I shall be noble and make your decision for you," Duo pronounced loftily before dropping back down to the colony again. "I work at a club. Work at the Club, actually. The one where the Demon works."  
  
That he just had to add in.  
  
Heart's eyes widened. "Damn. Ever met her?"  
  
"Him," Duo corrected, frowning slightly. There was more than one downfall to sporting a braid. "The Demon is definitely a him. Well, anyway, I work there, and I need to be there by, hmm, eleven. So pick me up at Independence Road and Freedom Boulevard at 10:30, that oughta give us enough time. We can party at the Club. I live in #27 with my roommate Hilde."  
  
"Okay. You sure the bouncer will let us in?"  
  
A feral grin twisted on Duo's face for a moment. "She'd rather die than not let me in. So, see you at 10:30?"  
  
"Of course." Heart smiled happily. "Thanks, Duo. See ya."  
  
He lifted his hand in a farewell gesture. "Later."  
  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
  
Duo was singing, and it was annoying. He had been singing since half past nine. Oh, sure, he'd kept it down to humming for the first half hour that Hilde had gotten home from work, but finally he just burst into full, glorious song.  
  
Well, it had been full and glorious when he started. Duo had a beautiful voice that he played like a master, like it was an instrument. He could do amazing things when he sang, whipping out his voice until it trembled but only because he allowed it to tremble, letting it soar with the passion of the music until it shook. Usually Hilde loved to hear him sing. But God, he was in a weird mood tonight. He either belted out obscene bar-songs with a vibrato the envy of any opera singer, or mauled Hilde's favorite tunes, or treated Hilde's least favorite songs with reverence and – she grudgingly had to admit – made them sound, if still not good, passable.  
  
It was now ten fifteen, according to her watch, and he still hadn't run out of songs. She had a sneaking suspicion that once he ran out of English songs, he'd simply move on to stuff in Dutch or Japanese or Spanish or something, likely with the most atrocious accent he could mutate his voice into. At least he was still in his room changing, so it was yet possible to get away from him.  
  
Desperate, she grabbed a drink, a blanket, and her headphones and took over the couch in the living room, incidentally at the opposite end of the apartment, blasted her own music up to full volume and started singing defiantly herself. The sound of Duo's singing coming through the walls had stopped for a moment, and when he started up again, this time a notch louder, she heard the grin in his voice.  
  
He would not be defeated. He had to have ordered those lungs direct from God. Briefly she wished him asthma or bronchitis or something before she had to get up and strangle him, then was ashamed and took the wish back, falling silent, though he certainly didn't. She didn't really want to ruin his voice. Then she remembered that he'd weathered the L2 plague and felt even guiltier.  
  
Hilde didn't wish any real harm on him. She liked him a lot… it was possible she loved him. She worried for him and wanted to care for him and enjoyed his life and light and spirit. That sounded kinda like love. Then again, she wouldn't recognize love if it came up and smacked her ass with a wet towel; her emotional IQ was about negative five.  
  
Lust she could recognize, came the thought unbidden into the virgin-pure fields of her mind. She colored at the thought, then choked as a very uncalled-for mind-picture bubbled into her brain, of Duo in one of those risque outfits that had practically caused her death from blood loss.  
  
Well, frick. His quirky mood had to be getting to her, too. If only he would just Shut. Up! Before he drove her stark raving mad, like or love or not!  
  
Suddenly, Duo fell silent. Immediately her music was way too loud and she turned it off, then listened suspiciously. Was he creeping up behind her, ready to pull one of his notorious little pranks…?  
  
"Whaddya think?" Duo called out as he bounded into the living room, dressed for work.  
  
Work which, incidentally, allowed, hell practically required, a very creative interpretation of what being "dressed for work" meant. Hilde swallowed as Duo rotated, arms flung out, to give Hilde a view from all sides. "Like my outfit?" he asked brightly.  
  
Like? Mere like was too weak a word.  
  
He had on fingerless black gloves and wore an unbuttoned, high-collared black jacket of some unidentified glossy material that looked, surprise, stunning on him. Beneath the jacket was a white, glittering mesh shirt that hung loose, revealing tantalizing glimpses of a fine physique. Black pants that looked like leather were artfully torn and patched up by safety pins with the occasional rag fluttering here and there. He wore plain, dirty white tennis sneakers, but they didn't detract from the overall image of glittering punk angel he presented.  
  
Duo flipped his hair over his shoulder, watching her cheerfully. He had braided it messily tonight, allowing strands of rich chestnut to escape here and there, alluringly. He'd dusted silver glitter all over himself. The only makeup he had applied this time was in the form of something that made his face shine softly, and some eyeliner, just a little, really, since his eyes were already big and lovely without it. He looked so happy he nearly glowed, a definite improvement over the painful false happiness of the past couple of days. "Well?" he prompted expectantly.  
  
Hilde shook her head as her heart twisted. Whatever way you put it, Duo Maxwell was a creature of beauty. "Duo, you're gorgeous. Why is it," she said, half jokingly, half plaintively, "that no matter how hard I try, I just cannot look as good as you do?"  
  
Duo snorted. "Hah! Don't go looking for pity here, Hilde. If you'd give me free rein when you're going to, say, a party or something, I could guarantee you'd be the belle of the ball, knock 'em all into orbit, but nooooo, you have to get all suspicious of me…"  
  
"Yeah, yeah. So, hey," she commented, "you seem pretty happy. Is anything special going on?"  
  
Duo grinned maniacally and twirled, braid thumping aggressively off whatever hard surfaces it encountered. "Leetle Duo has got…" He stopped twirling and paused dramatically. "A date."  
  
Hilde's face crumpled for a moment before she quickly transformed it to innocent surprise. Duo didn't seem to notice. "O-oh… so, um, who's the lucky girl…?"  
  
If Duo noted her trailing voice and the throbbing disappointment Hilde wasn't quite able to cover up, he didn't comment. "Lucky guy, actually," he corrected fondly, glancing at his watch. "He should be here soon."  
  
Her heart sank even further. "You're not –"  
  
"—Gay?" he finished for her. He gave her an odd look. "Jesus friggin' Christ, Hilde, duh. You hadn't noticed? Come on, would a straight guy cart around a braid like this?" He waggled the mass of hair in her direction teasingly, but Hilde's attempt at a smile abruptly fizzled out, and he finally seemed to realize that she was absolutely crestfallen. "Oh, hey, Hilde…" He sighed. "You don't… I mean, like me… do you?" It was clear from his suddenly uncomfortable expression that he dearly wanted the answer to be "no."  
  
To her shame, her lip started quivering, and her vision blurred with tears.  
  
"Oh, shit." Duo sighed again and went over to her, got down on his knees on the couch, since she was still snuggled firmly there. "C'mere. I'm sorry. I didn't know." He held out his arms to her and she turned her face into his shoulder. He smelled like vanilla and strawberry – had to be his shampoo. He was so inordinately vain about his hair, insisted on the best for it, always. "I didn't know," he whispered, breath warm against her ear, and his arms tightened around her, but it was the warm, dry embrace of a friend, not a lover. There was not even a bit of seduction about him now, just pure… pure… friendship. Concern and tenderness… for a friend.  
  
He had never wanted her the way she had wanted him. There'd never been a hope for her.  
  
She realized that she was sobbing and ground her sobs to a halt before she messed up Duo's clubbing gear. He looked freaking gorgeous and he was happy again and now she hated herself for poisoning his joy. He hadn't had anyone since the day she met him. She should have at least pretended, for decency's sake, to be happy for him. No, instead she had to bawl like some kind of little girl who'd been denied the toy she wanted.  
  
Feeling her sobs stop, Duo pulled away anxiously and sat back on his heels. He looked entirely remorseful. "I didn't mean to hurt you," he said worriedly. "I swear by everything I hold sacred, I really didn't know." He checked his watch, then straightened up and looked down at her, an awful sadness in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Hilde. I really am."  
  
She managed a wan smile and stood as well. "It's okay. Really. That was just a shock. I'll be fine. Go."  
  
His hands were holding each other tightly. "Yeah?" he said doubtfully.  
  
She nodded. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin tonight for you. I'm… I'm happy for you. It's what you want, so I'm happy for you. Go, before you're late and your boss kills me."  
  
He moved hesitantly, casting frequent glances over his shoulder, and he paused at the door. "If you want, I can leave. If I bother you. I'll come back long enough to take my stuff and live somewhere else."  
  
"Don't be an idiot," she snapped, a little more harshly than she'd intended. "Of course I want you back here. You need someone to take care of you."  
  
He gave a rueful laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Look, we'll talk when I get home this morning." Then he slipped through the doorway and was gone. 


End file.
